


Face to Face with the Skies

by quiddative



Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Time, M/M, Mild Language, Sexual Content, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-08
Updated: 2012-12-08
Packaged: 2017-11-20 15:51:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 42,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/587057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quiddative/pseuds/quiddative
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Set right after 4.22) Castiel was not killed by Raphael on the night of Lucifer’s release. Instead, he’s sent to the year 1996 and encounters the Winchesters. Unable to return to the present, Castiel resigns himself to traveling with them on their hunts across the states.</p><p>Meanwhile in the year 2008, Dean has barely gotten used to being back in the land of the living when he gets the biggest shock of his life; the man he fell in love with when he was eighteen has seemingly come back from the grave as well, claiming to be an angel of the Lord. The thing is, he doesn’t have a clue who Dean is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hoo boy, okay, so I wrote this way back in 2010 for the first DeanCas Big Bang round and, instead of focusing on grad school applications like I should be doing right now, I decided to go back and re-read this. I found, to my pleasant surprise, that there were only a few things I needed to edit. After touching it up at 3 in the morning and adding more porn, I thought I'd finally post it here since this is, I think, one of my best works in the SPN fandom to date. Of course, anyone is free to disagree with that.
> 
> If you like, the original masterpost is [here](http://quidquoprose.livejournal.com/22157.html).

_April, 2009_

  
  
Castiel is both terrified and in awe of Raphael. The glow emanating from his beautiful wings hurts Castiel’s borrowed eyes and the ring of light that shines around him could easily be used as fuel for an entire city.  
  
He has never been more afraid of anything else than he is of the archangel at that moment.  
  
He expects Raphael to immediately raise his arm and summon the powers of the Host into his hand but he’s surprised when it doesn’t come. Not yet. Instead, the archangel simply observes him like he’s a creature no one has ever encountered before. Then again, rebellious angels have been rare and far-between for a millennium. Castiel wonders if he, too, will be cast down into Perdition like the Morningstar or if he will be erased from existence. After all, being one of the youngest of the Host, he will not be missed quite as much as Lucifer had been so what use would the angels have with him alive?  
  
Finally, Raphael nods his head, having figured out the answer to an invisible riddle. “I see now,” he declares to no one in particular.  
  
When Raphael takes a step forward, Castiel does the reverse. Just behind him in the living room, he can hear the prophet’s heart hammering loud and fast while he’s cowering behind his couch. It’s foolish—the man has nothing to be afraid of. He should know that no angel will ever dare touch him. “What is it that you see?” he asks Raphael, though he is certain that he won’t like the answer. Nonetheless, it surprises him to hear Jimmy’s voice come out so even and strong, giving little of his fear away.  
  
Raphael laughs, the sound echoing around the house like thunder. “Be not afraid, brother, for I understand now what I must do.” His voice is calm like a lazy summer breeze. “I do not know what the future holds but I wish you all the luck in the world.” He finally raises his hand in a gesture Castiel is all too familiar with—index and middle finger straight; thumb, fourth, and fifth fingers curled. Raphael can do anything from sending Castiel back to Heaven for punishment to burning him right out of existence.  
  
He launches himself at his brother with a cry, determined to stop him before he has time to perform the act he had been sent here to do. He has no illusions that he will come out of this battle alive, but he will fulfill his promise to Dean Winchester.  
  
He _will_ hold them off.  
  
But Raphael is much quicker than he anticipated and grabs his arm, twisting it easily like a corkscrew. Although Castiel feels no pain, Jimmy’s body certainly does and it makes its silent cries of anguish known. He crumples to the ground like a rag doll and the last thing he sees before being engulfed by cold, cold darkness is Chuck Shurley staring at him in horror.  
  
For the first time since he came into existence, Castiel sleeps.

_September, 2008_

  
  
Dean had expected a lot of things to walk through those doors. What he hadn’t expected was to see _that_ face again after eleven years. His heart stopped beating when those blue, blue eyes rested on him and it was like he was eighteen again. He could recognize them anywhere.  
  
But they didn't recognize _him_.  
  
It was even the same fugly trench coat, suit, and tie _he_ wore when they—him, Sammy, and Dad—first found him. Except it couldn't be, because he stood for hours watching that coat burn months later. He was the one who lit the match.  
  
Dean raised his gun and fired.  
  
This... This _thing_ didn't even seem to notice that he just got salt rounds lodged into his chest. He just kept on walking, back stiff and so sure of himself, just like _him_.  
  
Over a million questions and possible answers were running through Dean's mind but none of them made sense. So he did the only thing that did make sense and continued firing along with Bobby, but the next few rounds had about as much effect on this guy as the first one did.  
  
He stopped long enough to bark, "Who are you?"  
  
"I'm the one who gripped you tight and raised you from Perdition,” was the reply.  
  
The man said all this calmly, as if raising people from Hell was a normal, every day occurrence. A walk in the park. Dean never thought he'd hear that voice again and hadn't realized just how much he missed it until now. It was the same deep, haunting tone that _he_ had and it didn't fail to send shivers down Dean's spine like it did all those years ago.  
  
 _No! Snap out of it, Winchester_ , he told himself ruthlessly, _this is just some twisted freak who knows exactly how to push your buttons_. Anger flooded him. Whatever this thing was, it had no right to wear _his_ face and taunt Dean with it. With a speed that surely would’ve made Dad proud, he dropped the gun and reached for his knife, stabbing the monster where its heart _should've_ been. He stepped back to survey his handiwork but those piercing blue eyes never left him, questioning but mostly amused.  
  
Bobby and his crowbar didn't stand a chance.  
  
The thing watched Bobby fall like he was nothing. After the ‘thump!’ that followed, he turned to face Dean again like he had never been interrupted. "We need to talk, Dean. Alone."  
  
Dean wanted to throw up. Of all the times he'd heard his name roll on this man's tongue—assuming it _was_ the same man, but it couldn't be, he won't believe it—he never imagined it could be said with so much nonchalance. Dean missed the way _he_ said it, with reverence, like Dean was his whole world.  
  
 _This is a nightmare_ , he told himself resolutely, _just a really fucked up nightmare_. But even after what seemed like forever and a day passed and he still couldn’t escape the other man’s gaze, Dean realized with sinking dread that no, this was very _real_.

_July, 1996_

  
  
When Castiel awakens, he is instantly aware of two things. One, he is no longer in the prophet’s house. Instead, he is lying in what appears to be a small clearing in a forest. Two, he isn’t dead, not by a long shot. He can see the air dancing around him the same way the old worshippers of Beltane danced during the fire festival. He can hear the trees and grass singing softly to him, sharing all the things they’ve seen over the centuries.  
  
He can still feel, something he had never been able to do until he slipped inside Jimmy’s body.  
  
As Castiel slowly rises to his feet, he is able to take in more of his surroundings. He knows instinctively that it is eight-twenty in the evening and he is somewhere near a place called Kittery Point in Maine. It is past dusk but not exactly dark yet. The sky has melted into a deep blue shade with strips of orange, red, and yellow still visible in the horizon. He is surrounded by thick trees that block most of the light but enough is left so that he can see a few feet in front of him.  
  
He closes his eyes and concentrates on flexing his wings. He has to get out of here, go back to Dean and Sam, keep the younger Winchester from killing Lilith—if he hasn’t already. But an invisible force pushes his Grace back when he attempts to take flight and flings him against a tree across the clearing. It groans against his weight as he collapses to the ground. Castiel is immediately back on his feet and reaches out with his Grace to find the perpetrator. His body tenses up, preparing itself for battle but no enemies approach. He can see the pure white swirl of his Grace blanketing the clearing and weaving through the trees like snakes, but he doesn’t feel the presence of anything else except for himself and a few stray animals in the vicinity.  
  
“Where are you?” he bellows. He patiently waits for a reply as his voice echoes through the trees but hears nothing except for the shrill cries of some seagulls in the distant. He repeats his question but gives up when, after a few minutes, he concedes that whatever attacked him is either long gone or too well hidden for him to find. “I will find you,” he promises.  
  
He begins to walk.

*

  
  
Castiel registers that Jimmy’s body is tired, that it is thirsty and hungry, but the sensations don’t mean much to him. The man himself is dormant, tucked away in the deepest corners of his mind, asleep for as long as Castiel inhabits his body. He is glad for that. Jimmy Novak has already suffered much in the Lord’s name and does not need to know what else lies in wait for him.  
  
Not that Castiel knows either, but he knows he will get out of here.  
  
He continues to walk in the direction of the seagulls’ cries. It unnerves him that although he knows where he is, he still doesn’t know _where_ he is. If he’s going north, south, east, or west. So he does the only thing he can and makes his way toward the ocean. His chances of finding someone there are much higher than they would have been if he had remained stationary.  
  
The sun has completely disappeared by now and if he were human he would have nothing but the light of the moon and stars to guide him. He can just make out the sound of water splashing against rocks when he hears a scream. Briefly suspending his plans to seek help, he begins to run in the direction of the sound. He’s rarely had to run since arriving on Earth and the sensation is strange to him.  
  
But he doesn’t have time to ponder over it because the next thing Castiel knows he’s reached another clearing—and he’s not alone. A Wendigo, ugly and sick past the point of any kind of cure, is on all fours, stalking towards a frozen, bloody figure trapped against a boulder.  
  
If Castiel had a heart, he knows it would’ve stopped beating right then and there because the creature’s prey is none other than Dean Winchester.  
  
“Get away from him.”  
  
The Wendigo, sensing more potential prey, pivots its head toward Castiel. There’s nothing human left in those eyes anymore—they’re glassy and burning with hunger. The creature growls at him but remains in front of Dean, who looks more terrified for Castiel than he is for himself.  
  
“Get outta here!” he yells. His voice is higher, not nearly as gruff and worn as it _should_ be, and it’s then Castiel knows for certain he’s not in the year 2009 anymore, but that doesn’t matter because right now because Dean’s in trouble.  
  
Castiel ignores his warning and makes his way toward Dean and the Wendigo in confident strides until he is only a few feet away from them. The Wendigo growls again and its mouth curls into a disgusting smile, revealing all its sharp, grime-covered fangs. Finally, _finally_ , it forgets about Dean and begins to edge toward Castiel. It narrows its eyes and regards him calculatingly, trying to decide the most efficient way to take this prey down. Castiel knows the Wendigo is confused—his scent must smell differently from all the other unfortunate humans it’s hunted before.  
  
“Come and get me,” he challenges, his voice barely above a whisper.  
  
The Wendigo snarls and leaps at him, claws outstretched and mouth wide open. Castiel doesn’t move an inch. He can vaguely make out Dean calling for him to _run! What’re you doing?_ but he ignores him and waits for the creature to get close enough. Once it does Castiel seizes its arm and swings the Wendigo in a circle. It lands on the ground in a daze, unsure of what had just happened, but Castiel doesn’t give it a chance to recollect its senses.  
  
Still gripping its arm tightly with his left hand, he leans down and presses the palm of his other hand against the creature’s forehead. He looks straight into its eyes as he starts chanting an old Enochian spell. The Wendigo doesn’t realize what’s happening until it is too late and begins to thrash wildly against Castiel. He continues to chant, unperturbed, as the monster’s skin begins to burn, along with what’s left of its soul. “Neither Perdition nor Paradise awaits you,” he pauses to say, calmly but coldly. He can feel the thing’s soul fading away into nothingness, just like its body, and does not deny the grim satisfaction that settles him. This thing hurt Dean and probably killed dozens of innocent humans as well. For someone to sacrifice his humanity simply to satisfy his hunger—it’s unforgivable.  
  
He finishes the spell the same time the Wendigo lets out a piercing shriek, letting go just as its body crumbles into a pile of ashes. Castiel steps over it and hurries to Dean, dropping down in front of him when he reaches the other man.  
  
 _He’s only a child_ , he realizes in awe. Now that he can see Dean more clearly, he is shocked by the significant lack of wrinkles etched on his face. Castiel almost doesn’t recognize his soul. Although the sight of it always pained him, he’s been so used to seeing the man’s soul in tatters that he is stunned to see it whole and intact. Pure. Dean’s face is younger, a little rounder, but no less handsome than the one Castiel’s grown accustomed to seeing in the present (or is it the future?). Dean’s eyes, green as ever, aren’t exactly innocent anymore—the boy lost his innocence when he was four—but they haven’t yet been tainted by Hell. They shine with the same righteousness the Dean Winchester he knows possesses. That, at least, will never change.  
  
“Are you alright?” he asks. He extends a hand to help Dean up, only to be met with the barrel of a gun in his face.  
  
“What the fuck are you?” Dean demands.  
  
 _“Who are you?”_  
  
The words are familiar yet so foreign that Castiel can’t help but grin, just a little. If he had any doubts that this is Dean, he doesn’t anymore. This young man, straddling the line between childhood and manhood is so very Dean Winchester. “I’m... a friend,” he answers lamely. He wants to say, _I’m an angel from the future_ , but he knows the declaration will only be met by disbelief.  
  
Dean cocks the gun and glares at him. The fear in his eyes from earlier is still there but it’s different now. Stronger, even. Castiel can see confusion and terror broiling in his soul, battling against logic and what remains of his courage. He may not be human, but he thinks he can understand where these human emotions are coming from—when a strange, mysterious man appears from nowhere to dispel a monster that usually takes at least two human hunters to kill, he’d be worried if Dean wasn’t suspicious.  
  
“Yeah, how ‘bout you give me a real answer before I blow your head off?” Dean asks. Castiel is impressed he can keep his voice so steady, but there’s no denying the fear laced in it.  
  
“I can’t.”  
  
 _BAM!_  
  
Castiel doesn’t look down, he doesn’t need to, the shock on Dean’s face is enough. His eyes are wide open and filled with fear. His breaths are coming in quicker, more erratic and his knuckles are beginning to turn white over gripping his gun so tightly.  
  
“What are you?” he asks again. This time his voice is as small as a mouse.  
  
It doesn’t suit him, Castiel decides. “I can’t tell you anything more than that. Please, Dean, you—”  
  
“How do you know my name?” The gun is back up again, this time pressed right against Castiel’s forehead, but Dean’s grip is shaky.  
  
“I know many things,” Castiel replies smoothly, “but you shouldn’t concern yourself with that. All you need to know is that I’m a friend and I will never hurt you, Dean Winchester.”  
  
“Sorry, but my dad taught me better than to trust creeps like you.”  
  
“John Winchester is a very wise man.”  
  
Dean narrows his eyes. All traces of fear are gone, replaced by anger. Castiel isn’t surprised—family is the root of Dean’s heart, after all. “How do you know my dad?” is what he says, but what Castiel hears is _If you hurt either him or my brother, I will kill you, you son of a bitch._ He doesn’t doubt that threat for a second.  
  
“I—” But Castiel is interrupted when a child’s voice behind him shouts, “Dean! Dean, is that you? Dad, I think I found Dean!” The sound is quickly followed by frantic footsteps running towards them. They stop suddenly, only a few feet behind Castiel, and the familiar ‘click!’ of a gun being cocked rings in Castiel’s ears for the second time within the past five minutes.  
  
This time another voice, much deeper and older than Sam’s, shouts, “Get the hell away from my son!”  
  
A wry smile curls on Castiel’s lips. He’d never met John Winchester personally but he is almost as big of a legend among the Host as his sons. He stands up and turns around slowly. John has far more grey hair than the average man his age and his face, once young and innocent, is unshaven and scarred by time.  
  
A much younger Sam Winchester stands behind him. When Castiel’s eyes meet his, the boy gulps and brings his gun up, mimicking his father in training it on Castiel’s chest. Castiel can barely recognize him. The boy’s hair is light and he’s far shorter than his future counterpart. Azazel’s hold on his soul is barely visible but it’s there nonetheless, like a thin layer of dust. Other than that Sam’s soul shines almost as brightly as Dean’s. There is so much goodness and innocence there that Castiel almost can’t believe that this is the same Sam he knows in the future.  
  
“I mean you and your family no harm,” he says calmly.  
  
John narrows his weary eyes and only tightens his grip on his gun. “Sorry, but I find that hard to believe—”  
  
“No, Dad.”  
  
All eyes turn to Dean, who has remained silent since his family’s arrival until now. “He... He took out the Wendigo like it was nothing and... ” He waves his gun uselessly, “... guns don’t work on him.”  
  
John and Sam stare at him in astonishment. Before Castiel can explain—even though he’s not sure _how_ —John decides to test his son’s theory and shoots him at point blank range in the chest. He ignores Sam’s shouts and Dean’s _Dad!_ , watching Castiel intently. He isn’t disappointed when Castiel simply cocks his head to the side, one eyebrow raised.  
  
“Shit,” says Sam. He’s staring at Castiel with unabashed curiosity and it reminds Castiel of his first meeting with the man called Sam Winchester.  
  
John doesn’t give any physical indication that he’s shocked. Only by being able to see his soul does Castiel know what he’s really thinking. He’s much more alert now, his mind working hastily to find a plausible explanation. When no answer comes to him, he reluctantly asks, “What are you?”  
  
“My name is Cas—” _No_ , Castiel chastises himself. He can’t give them his true name. He needs to keep as much information about himself and the future secret. Running through the billions of names in his mind, he eventually settles for one that will help repair the damage caused by his blunder. “Caspar, and I’m a friend.”  
  
Dean snorts, “Caspar, really? You mean like the friendly ghost?”  
  
Castiel blinks, confused. “No, as in one of the three Magi who traveled to Bethlehem on the night of the Christ child’s birth,” he explains.  
  
He’s met with another snort. “You say that like it actually happened.” While Dean’s lack of faith doesn’t fail to disturb him as it usually does, Castiel finds he isn’t as surprised by it as he used to be.  
  
“Dean.” At John’s admonition, Dean immediately closes his mouth and has the decency to look sheepish. The older man regards Castiel coolly. “Sorry, ‘Caspar’, if that really is your name,” he says, “but I don’t exactly trust you and I have half a mind to lop your head off right now. Still... you saved my son’s life.” Both he and Castiel turn to look at Dean at that.  
  
“Yeah, um, thanks for that,” Dean mutters as he tries to make himself as small as possible in order to escape their scrutiny. For all the confidence he usually displays, he’s unused to being the center of attention. Even in the future, he still isn’t.  
  
“But,” continues John, voice loud and commanding, “as far as I’m concerned, that’s that. Now how about you let us go on our merry way and we’ll let you go on yours?”  
  
“But Dean is hurt,” Castiel points out. There are multiple cuts and bruises on Dean, though a quick sweep over his body tells Castiel that they are nothing serious. His broken leg, however, is. “He needs medical attention.”  
  
“No shit, Captain Obvious,” hisses Dean.  
  
It doesn’t escape John’s notice that Castiel, without being told, knows his son’s name. In fact, Castiel can sense that the man is beginning to suspect he knows both his and Sam’s names as well and the revelation unnerves him. Yet he doesn’t address that. Instead, he makes his way to Dean’s side, grunting out a “We’re fine”. Sam shoots Castiel one last inquisitive glance before following suit, though he keeps his gun trained on Castiel, earning himself a brief nod of approval from his father.  
  
“I can provide some assistance if you wish,” offers Castiel. He makes his point known by taking a meaningful step forward. He still doesn’t know why Raphael had sent him to the past, of all places, but he knows it can’t be a coincidence that he had stumbled on the Winchesters. Whatever reason the archangel sent him here for, it must have something to do with the hunters.  
  
John’s glare, though undeniably fierce, has no effect on Castiel. “We can take it from here,” he growls out, the tone in his voice signalling the end of the matter, at least to him. He kneels down to inspect Dean’s wounds, ignoring Castiel’s presence.  
  
“No, Dad, we can’t.” As one, the two oldest Winchesters turn to glare at Sam, who throws a challenging glare right back at them. “We’re out of supplies for the first aid kit, remember? Unless we go to the hospital—”  
  
“No!” This time, it’s Dean who speaks up. “No hospitals! And Sammy, please, let’s just do what Dad wants—”  
  
“Which is to do _absolutely nothing_ when you could be getting help!” Sam directs his narrowed eyes at his father in a challenge.  
  
John’s face is as set as stone. “Sammy, you know we can’t do that. We’d draw too much attention to ourselves.” John’s voice is quiet but its tone reminds Castiel of a viper ready to strike.  
  
He knows John and Sam have had this argument before. Their voices are loud and ugly, cutting into each other like knives and re-opening old wounds. They are playing the same song but with different instruments.  
  
John is like a rock—once he’s made up his mind nothing, not even the strongest wind, can move him. But that doesn’t mean he is completely immune to nature. Castiel can see a few small cracks dotting the edge of his soul, which at first glance may appear harmless. But he knows that given enough time, they will spread like spider webs—pulling the man’s spirit taut until the only thing keeping him together is the memory of his wife. John’s arguments with Sam are already starting to wear him out and this is only the beginning of a long string of painful fights.  
  
The anger that Sam keeps inside himself is a small amount now but Castiel knows it will only grow and grow until it has nowhere else to go and ruptures, lashing out at everything in its path—demons, loved ones—without remorse. Like his father, he doesn’t give up easily.  
  
Castiel and Dean are momentarily forgotten as father and son argue. Dean’s soul screams for them to stop but the boy himself is unable to do anything. This is nothing new to him yet his soul withers a little more with each fight. Dean catches Castiel watching and lets out a tired, frustrated sigh, “Hey, buddy, not that I’m ungrateful to your or anything, but you’re done here.”  
  
“Done?”  
  
“Yeah, it means you’re not needed anymore.” The words were said with the intention to hurt but they sound half-hearted to Castiel’s ears.  
  
Castiel ignores his words and kneels down in front of him. _That_ finally catches John and Sam’s attention and they stop mid-argument to stare at him. “What are you—”  
  
Dean’s breath hitches when Castiel closes the distance between their bodies until their breaths meet. What little air there is between them crackles with energy and neither of them can deny there is a spark of _something_ there. Dean gulps, clearly nervous, but never breaks his gaze. Castiel places his hand on top of the knee of Dean’s right leg, the broken one, and Dean lets out a hiss at the contact.  
  
Castiel closes his eyes and begins to whisper in Enochian.

_September, 2008_

  
  
Dean could feel the man’s—if he could even be called that—eyes boring in the back of his head as he inspected Bobby’s prone form. It was creepy but at the same time he couldn’t help but get a thrill out of it. God, it was like he was regressing back into his hormonal teenage self and there was nothing he could do about it.  
  
He couldn’t stand the silence anymore and finally had to break it. “Who are you?” he asked again, but the words somehow felt heavier on his tongue. A part of him desperately hoped this _was_ Caspar. There were so many things he’d wanted to tell him after... after he died. They were all variations of the three dangerous words: ‘I’, ‘you’, and ‘love’. At the same time, if it did turn out to be him, he didn’t know what he’d do. He didn’t trust himself to keep from pulling the man into his arms and never letting go. Still, if he’d been alive all this time, why hadn’t he told Dean? Why had he not aged at all since the last time Dean saw him? It hurt that he might’ve even _wanted_ to hide himself from Dean.  
  
They’d trusted each other, hadn’t they?  
  
The man looked up from his perusal of one of Bobby’s ancient-looking Bibles and the look he gave Dean sent shivers down his spine, and it wasn’t the good kind. Just like Caspar, he looked at Dean like he could actually see through him—mind, body, and soul, and it never failed to make him feel vulnerable and naked. Except unlike before, there was no warmth or recognition in those blue eyes now, and that was what hurt the most.  
  
“Castiel. I’m an angel of the Lord.”


	2. Chapter 2

_July, 1996_

  
  
John locks the door behind him. Castiel watches as he pulls up a chair and sits with his back facing the door, gun in his hand, and looking directly into Castiel’s eyes. “Alright, spill. What do you know about the son of a bitch that killed Mary?”  
  
Castiel closes his eyes and almost regrets telling John about Azazel. Almost. But even after he healed Dean of his broken leg (it had taken all his power to do so, leaving him drained and unable to heal Dean’s other injuries afterwards), John was still adamant that they go their separate ways. Castiel persisted in requesting to join them. John wanted to compromise, offering to take Castiel to the nearest gas station and leave him some money as payment for his help in their hunt.  
  
Castiel had then been forced to pull what Dean would’ve called his ‘trump card’. “I can tell you how to find the creature that killed your wife.”  
  
That stopped all three Winchester men cold.  
  
They had only just returned to the cottage John rented for the duration of their hunt. As soon as they were through the door John dragged Castiel to an upstairs room with him, ordering his sons to stay below. Dean readily complied, though Castiel knew he was aching to join them for the impending conversation. Sam was not so quiet. He protested vehemently, declaring he and Dean were old enough to know the details, but after some pleading from Dean, he reluctantly obeyed John’s order.  
  
In Castiel’s opinion, Sam was right. The boys had every right to know what really happened to their mother all those years ago. Although he couldn’t tell them everything, there is some information they need to know to prepare them for the future. The family is already embroiled in so many secrets that adding anymore would suffocate them.  
  
Or trigger the Apocalypse, as the Host had been hoping for.  
  
“This creature,” says Castiel slowly, choosing his words carefully, “is like nothing you’ve ever hunted before.”  
  
“Yeah, I figured.”  
  
Castiel inhales. The action is unnecessary, as he doesn’t actually need to breathe, but he’s seen Dean and many other humans do it multiple times when frustrated. Before he descended on Earth, he never felt frustration before. Now, it seems as if he is experiencing the emotion more and more. He’s never felt more trapped in Jimmy’s body as he does now, so big yet so small and unable to do anything about it. He can move mountains, calm seas, but at the moment, trying to talk to John Winchester seems like an impossible feat. It makes him want to scream. “I can’t tell you everything,” he says honestly, “because knowing too much would endanger you and your sons. There are some things I can tell you, but you’ll have to trust me.”  
  
John looks torn. In the end, his shoulders slump in defeat and he says, “Fine. What... What _can_ you tell me?”  
  
Castiel exhales, releasing the breath he didn’t know he had been holding. He’d expected more of a fight from the hunter and he thanks his Father that it hadn’t come to that. He didn’t want to fight with John. It would not have done either of them any good. “First of all,” he begins, “you have to go back to the beginning.” He pauses. “No, even further than that if you can,” he adds.  
  
“That doesn’t help me much.”  
  
“You need to go back to the day Mary Winchester died and examine everything that happened on that day. Anything unusual at all—”  
  
John cuts in, “I’ve already done that and I found nothing.” He sounds devastated and angry, more at himself for his failure than the lack of information.  
  
Castiel shakes his head. “No, you haven’t. You have to try again, look deeper. The answer will come to you eventually, but I cannot tell you what it is. _You_ have to find it for yourself.”  
  
John narrows his eyes. “How do I know I can trust you? For all I know, you could’ve been the one who killed Mary.”  
  
Castiel almost smiles. The thought had been weighing heavily in John’s mind the moment he mentioned Mary’s name and he had been prepared for the inevitable question. “That’s true,” he admits, “but you know as well as I do there is a way to verify if I’m telling the truth or not.”  
  
Realization dawns in John’s eyes. “Missouri Mosley.”

_September, 2008_

  
  
“This... This is... a vessel.”  
  
 _A vessel_. Dean felt as if he’d just walked into a freezer.  
  
What if Caspar was a vessel?  
  
The explanation was ludicrous—but it was also the only one Dean had. He wanted to ask Castiel right then and there if the name of the person he was wearing was ‘Caspar’ but something at the back of his head stopped him. _No_ , it whispered to him, _this isn’t the time, not yet_.  
  
Instead, he asked, “You’re possessing some poor bastard?”  
  
“He’s a devout man. He actually prayed for this,” answered Castiel.  
  
Suddenly, the room was too hot and Dean couldn’t breathe, yet his heart was pounding at a hundred miles per hour. Then there was nothing. It felt like the whole world had disappeared, leaving nothing behind except him and the angel standing in front of him.

_July, 1996_

  
  
“Why do we have to go to Uncle Bobby’s? Why can’t we come with you?” Sam looks indignant and Dean’s face is a mirror reflection of his brother’s.  
  
John doesn’t look at either of them as he continues cleaning his guns. “Because I don’t want you to. And it’ll be a hell of a lot easier if we meet up in South Dakota.”  
  
Sam rolls his eyes. “You’re visiting a psychic, not going off to hunt a werewolf. Seriously, why can’t we come?”  
  
Rather than attempting to answer his son John turns to Dean with a desperate plea in his eyes.  
  
Dean, obedient as ever, places a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Come on, sport. Dad’s got his reasons. Besides, wasn’t there a book at Bobby’s you really wanted to read? Or was it all of them?”  
  
Sam wavers and eventually he sighs. “Fine.” The boy may believe that he and his father are as different as day and night, but it is undeniable that he is very much John Winchester’s son. He stomps out of the room toward the bedroom he shares with Dean, making sure his steps are booming like thunder and heard by everyone until he reaches his destination. The last Castiel hears from Sam is a violent slam of his door.  
  
A brief moment of silence hangs in the air before Dean breaks it. “I’ll talk to him,” he assures John, already making his way to the door.  
  
John grunts out a curt, “thanks.” He doesn’t even look up when Dean closes the door softly on his way out.  
  
“Your sons love you very much,” offers Castiel a few minutes later. It feels like he had been sitting in the same chair forever, though he knows it’s only been an hour, forty-five minutes, and six seconds. He offered to help John when he began cleaning his guns, but the other man had just thrown him a look that suggested he would only receive another round of bullets if he so much as touched a gun.  
  
The other man directs a similar look at him now. “Why don’t you go make yourself useful somewhere and stay out of my business?”  
  
Castiel tries to do so but soon discovers that there’s not much he can do as he wanders around the small cottage. Meanwhile, Dean’s eyes follow his every movement like a hawk observing its prey prior to going in for the kill. When Castiel finally sits down on the couch in the living room, Dean is instantly standing in front of him with his arms folded. The boy’s intention to block his path is not lost on him.  
  
“Look, I don’t know what you are and I don’t really care, but what I wanna know is, why are you here?” It’s hard to ignore the threat in his voice.  
  
“I can’t answer that.”  
  
Dean snorts, “Whatever.” He goes on before Castiel can open his mouth to say more, “Let me tell you something, _Caspar_ , my dad may be human but he’s one of the best hunters in the country.”  
  
“I don’t doubt that.”  
  
“So whatever you’ve got planned,” continues Dean, like he hadn’t heard Castiel at all, “you’d be better off giving it up right now.” Dean leans down until they’re face to face, echoing their positions earlier when Castiel healed him. “But if, somehow, you hurt my dad, I promise I will hunt you down to the ends of the earth and gut you like a fish myself,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper.  
  
Castiel nods. “I understand and I have no intention of harming your father. In fact, I am very keen to protect him as well as you and your brother.”  
  
Dean is still suspicious. “Why do you wanna help us so badly?”  
  
 _“Now why would an angel rescue me from hell?”  
  
“Because God commanded it. Because we have work for you.”_  
  
Castiel is saved from answering the question when the door to John’s bedroom opens and the man himself walks out carrying his duffel bag, declaring it’s time to go.

*

  
  
It takes John and Castiel several days to go from Maine to Kansas, by the time they arrive Castiel feels he’s now well-acquainted with the word ‘antsy’. He still can’t stretch his wings—it is the worst feeling in the world. For the entire trip he constantly felt like he was on the edge of an explosion, only there was nowhere to go except inward.  
  
Stepping out of John’s truck and greeting the air with his skin instead of feathers is nowhere near as satisfying as unfurling his wings, but it’s better than nothing.  
  
Missouri Mosley’s house is small and nondescript, but it radiates warmth and _home_. They’re barely out of the truck when the woman herself comes barreling through the front door. “John Winchester,” she bellows, “I thought I felt you coming from a mile away.”  
  
“Hello, Missouri,” greets John, his lips curling into a grin that easily makes him look twenty years younger.  
  
Missouri wraps her arms around him, squeezing him in a tight hug that would make any cherub proud. When she lets go, she turns to Castiel with a questioning look.  
  
Angels, once they’ve taken vessels, are immune to psychics. Nonetheless, psychics are still able to sense that there is something inhuman about them. “John,” Missouri says slowly, her eyes never leaving Castiel. “who is this handsome young man?”  
  
John grunts, “His name’s Caspar. I want you to tell me if he’s clean or not.”  
  
Missouri raises a brow. “Oh, he’s something, alright.”

_September, 2008_

  
  
Sam had readily believed Dean when he recounted his and Bobby’s run-in with Castiel. Dean wasn’t sure whether he was happy about that or not. He almost wanted Sam to disagree with him when he said Castiel was an angel, give him a good reason to believe otherwise, tell him that it was probably some kind of monster he could kill without feeling guilty.  
  
“Sam,” said Dean once Bobby was out of the room. “the guy—this so-called angel... it’s Caspar.”  
  
Sam’s breath hitched. “Caspar? But I thought he was—”  
  
“Dead? Yeah, I thought so, too.”  
  
Sam fixed Dean with an unreadable look. “Are you sure?”  
  
“Of course I am!” Dean snapped. He’d expected Sam not to believe him but damn it, something in his gut told him it _was_ Caspar and it had never been wrong before. “I’d recognize him anywhere,” he said, voice quieter now but more confident than it was before. “I don’t know why he hasn’t aged but I know it’s him. Or at least it’s his body and that son of a bitch angel or whatever it is is wearing him like a meatsuit.”  
  
Sam looked worried. “What are you going to do about it?” He asked, but there was fear in his voice. He was afraid of the answer Dean would give.  
  
“I don’t know,” he replied truthfully. “But I _am_ gonna get to the bottom of this.”

_July, 1996_

  
  
Missouri pushes John into her kitchen to make tea, threatening to unleash “a world of hurt” upon him if he even tries to eavesdrop and that she’ll know if he does. She shuts the door to the kitchen before sitting down in front of Castiel in the living room. “Alright,” she says, clapping her hands together, “why don’t you tell me who you really are?”  
  
Castiel closes his eyes. In order to convince John Winchester to trust him, he needs Missouri to trust _him_. He uncloaks his Grace just a fraction, not enough to harm Missouri like it did Pamela, but enough to give her a glimpse to his true form. When he opens his eyes, it’s to find Missouri staring at him in fright, gripping the handles of her chair so tightly her knuckles have gone pale. “You’re an—”  
  
“I’d prefer if you kept this information from John,” Castiel says curtly.  
  
A few moments pass before Missouri regains her composure. “I take it your name isn’t really Caspar then, huh?”  
  
“It’s Castiel,” he answers, a little more eagerly than he’d intended. It feels good to be able to say his own name again. Names hold power.  
  
“Okay, Castiel,” says Missouri, testing the name out on her tongue. She’s still staring at him. “why don’t you tell me what an angel like you is doing with the Winchesters?”  
  
Of course, Castiel does not tell her the truth. He can’t. Although Missouri is an honest and trustworthy woman, Castiel can’t risk her accidentally letting something slip to John. So he tells her a variation of the truth, a task he is unused to. He explains that he is an angel sent by the Host (true) to help the Winchesters find the thing that killed Mary Winchester fourteen years ago (somewhat true). Once he finishes explaining, Missouri gives him a strange look. “Listen, I’m glad that the Heavenly Host is taking so much interest in helping those poor boys out, but why is this one family so important to you?”  
  
Castiel is suddenly reminded of Dean when he’s nervous. He starts sweating and his Adam’s apple begins to bob up and down at a rate much quicker than normal. Castiel knows he shouldn’t be nervous around Missouri. She may be psychic but she’s still only human. Then again, she holds herself in a regal air not many other humans do. “I... I’ve been watching them for a long time,” he answers. It’s not exactly a lie.  
  
When Missouri narrows her dark eyes at him, Castiel is almost certain she has seen through his fabrication, despite having cloaked his mind from her. “I just want to help them find justice,” he adds truthfully.  
  
The smile Missouri gives him is dazzling. “Thank you,” she says simply.  
  
The easy atmosphere between them disappears when John bangs on the kitchen door, yelling that the tea is ready. “Stop making such a racket before you bring my whole house down, Winchester!” Missouri yells right back.  
  
John grumbles the whole time he’s setting the cups down on the coffee table but he instantly reverts to his usual professionalism once he sits down. “So?” he prompts, “Is he clean?”  
  
Missouri laughs, the sound not unlike that of wind chimes in the spring. “Winchester, this guy’s about as far from evil as you can get.”  
  
“You sure?”  
  
She snorts, “Honey, I’m a psychic, remember? If you can’t even trust me, then I don’t know who you can trust.”

_September, 2008_

  
  
Seeing Castiel—or Caspar—the second time had the exact same effect on Dean as it had the first time. It felt as if his heart was frozen but speeding up at the same time. It was uncomfortable, to say the least. Castiel had cut to the chase, congratulating Dean on taking care of the Witnesses, pointedly ignoring the fact that neither he nor any of his angel buddies had lifted a finger (or wing, whatever) to help.  
  
“I thought angels were supposed to be guardians... fluffy wings, halos, you know, Michael Landon. Not dicks.” Dean took pleasure in seeing Castiel wince. _Take that, body-snatcher_ , he thought vindictively.  
  
“Read the Bible,” replied Castiel, his voice clipped. Whatever warmth was there earlier was gone now, snuffed out by the coldness Dean was more familiar with. “Angels are warriors of God. I’m a soldier. I’m not here to perch on your shoulder. We had larger concerns.”  
  
“Concerns?” Dean sneered. He knew full well that he was being a jackass but he couldn’t help it. Castiel triggered something inside of him, something he hadn’t felt since Hell. Since Alastair personally released him from the rack and put a knife in his hand. He hated feeling this way but it was like a drug and he couldn’t stop wanting to hurl every hateful word he could think of at the angel. He wanted to hurt Castiel, let him feel what Dean was feeling.  
  
A small part of him wanted to hurt Caspar, too.   
  
But Castiel proved that he wasn’t above doing the same to Dean despite being an angel. “Our numbers are not unlimited,” he said. “Six of my brothers died in the field this week. You think the armies of Heaven should just follow you around? There’s a bigger picture here.” He stepped closer to Dean, their harsh breaths mingling together.  
  
The memory of meeting Caspar at Kittery Point all came flooding back to Dean now and his heart clenched. Fuck, it was killing him—how much he missed Caspar.  
  
“You should show me some respect,” continued Castiel, “I _dragged_ you out of Hell, I can _throw you back in_.”

_July, 1996_

  
  
John had barely stepped out of the truck when he’s met by a round of bullets. He swears loudly but doesn’t seem too surprised by Robert Singer’s greeting. “Damn it, Bobby!” he snarls. “Can’t a man pick up his sons in peace?”  
  
Robert fires again from his bedroom window in response, forcing John back into the truck.  
  
Moments later, Dean and Sam are walking out the door, each with a small duffel bag slung over their shoulders. Dean sticks his head inside the driver’s window. “Dad?” he asks hesitantly when he catches sight of Castiel. He bites his bottom lip, clearly unsure of what to make of Castiel’s presence.  
  
“Dean,” says John, slapping Castiel’s back none-too-gently, “meet Caspar. He’s gonna be part of our family from now on.”  
  
Sam looks surprised but seems far more receptive to the idea than his brother. A hurricane of emotions rages across Dean’s face. Shock, betrayal, distrust.  
  
Castiel sighs.

*

  
  
The first thing Dean says when they arrive at their latest motel is, “You can’t be serious.” He’s looking at John like he’s seeing him for the first time in his life.  
  
John levels him with a blank look. “I’m dead serious.”  
  
Dean stares incredulously a him. “So,” he says, “you’re just gonna take some psychic’s word on some... some freak of nature?”  
  
“Dean!” John cuts him off with a glare. “This psychic has never steered me wrong before. I trust her.”  
  
The words cut deep into Dean’s heart like daggers. Castiel can feel it, can also hear him silently ask “ _But you don’t trust me?_ ”  
  
The tension lingers around them, tight and uncomfortable, before Sam breaks it. “So, Caspar,” he says, “you’re travelling with us now?”  
  
Castiel nods. “Yes, I am.”  
  
Sam’s eyes brighten and his lips widen into a smile. He steps forward until he’s only a foot away from Castiel and holds up his hand. “Hi, I’m Sam. It’s nice to meet you, Caspar.” Castiel can’t help but smile. He can almost believe he’s back in the present.  
  
 _”I—I’ve heard a lot about you, Castiel. It’s nice to meet you.”_  
  
“And I, you,” replies Castiel, taking his hand and shaking it.  
  
When he turns to Dean, Dean folds his arms as if to form some sort of shield and glares at him. “I’m not shaking your hand, dude.”  
  
John sighs but doesn’t say anything. Instead, he seems to decide that he has done all he needed to and goes into his room, murmuring that everyone needs to be up by eight the next morning because they have a long way to go for their next hunt. “Do you want to take the couch or the bed?” he grunts at Castiel. The motel room only has three beds—one in one room and two in the other with the sad imitation of a living room separating them.  
  
“It’s alright. I don’t need sleep,” Castiel informs them.  
  
He should be used to the stares by now. “Right then,” murmurs John. “in that case, you can take first watch. Boys, get some sleep.”  
  
“Yes, sir,” they chorus. As one, Dean and Sam pivot on their heels and they all head to their rooms. Two doors close at almost the exact same time, the resounding ‘clack!’ of their locks still echoing through Castiel’s ears loud as drums.  
  
He sits down on the couch and is surprised by just how _tired_ he is. He is not physically tired, because he is an angel and angels don’t tire. It’s unheard of. But between Dean’s stubbornness and everything else that has happened he begins to wonder what he has gotten himself into.  
  
Soon, Dean and Sam’s voices float to his ear from behind the thin door of their room. “Geez, Dean, what’s your problem?”  
  
“Nothin’, Sammy.”  
  
“Yeah, right. You can barely stand to be in the same room as Caspar. Is this really just because of his powers?”  
  
“ _Yes_.” Then, quietly, Dean adds, “Look, I don’t trust him and his freaky Wendigo-killing mojo. I mean, have you ever heard of anything like that before?”  
  
“Yeah, on the day he _rescued_ you,” Sam replies dryly. “Seriously, Dean, he _saved_ your life. You should treat him better.”  
  
“I just don’t trust him, alright? He looks like a flasher in his creepy get-up!”  
  
A sigh. “So he’s a little different, so what?”  
  
“ _So_ … ”  
  
The conversation between them dies down into mumbles until there is nothing left for Castiel to hear. He closes his eyes and leans back on the couch. He never had any inclination towards sleeping, seeing it as a waste of time, but he knew it was a necessity to humans. Now, he wonders what it would be like to close his eyes for just a few hours, forget about the world—the Apocalypse, the Host, prophets and their prophecies, vibrant green eyes—and simply rest.

*

  
  
Their next hunt takes them to Paris, Idaho, which Dean takes great delight in pointing out to Sam when they pass the sign that says, “ _Welcome to Paris!_ ”  
  
John decided to drive alone that morning, forcing Castiel to ride in the Impala with Dean and Sam. Dean had all but thrown Sam into the passenger seat and cast Castiel a dark look after that, daring him to challenge his authority. Castiel hadn’t, and silently took his place in the backseat.  
  
“Check it out, Sammy,” he says with glee, “we didn’t have to go all the way to Europe to go to Paris!”  
  
“It’s not _really_ Paris,” sighs Sam, but he’s grinning along with Dean. Dean’s good mood is infectious and Castiel finds that he’s unable to resist it as well. In this moment, it’s easy to forget that in the future, Dean is destined to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders, that he’s a weapon created solely for the purpose of destroying the world.  
  
The Host claims that he will really be purifying it.  
  
Castiel wouldn’t call it genocide, but it comes close to it.  
  
If there was one thing Dean taught him, it’s that humans are more than they seem. They laugh, they cry, they fight, they love, and the amount of strength they possess is astounding. The other angels can’t see it because they can’t see anything past themselves, but Castiel can. That is what free will is, that is what the Lord created them for.  
  
And he will fight for it.  
  
“This Paris is much smaller than the one in France,” Castiel notes thoughtfully.  
  
Sam turns to him with wide eyes. “You’ve been to Paris before?” he asks, amazed.  
  
“I have.”  
  
“Can you speak French?”  
  
“ _Je peux parler en français_.”  
  
Sam laughs, delighted. “Can you speak other languages, too?”  
  
“Well... ”  
  
Castiel is bombarded with a series of questions about his abilities for the duration of the drive. If he were human, he’s certain he would not be able to keep up with all of Sam’s questions. But in all honesty, he doesn’t mind. In fact, he quickly realizes that he enjoys answering the boy’s inquiries and learning more about him.  
  
At one point, Castiel casts a glance at Dean, who had suddenly grown quiet, and finds himself the object of a venomous glare.  
  
“We’re here,” Dean announces briskly when they arrive at the ‘vic’s’ house. Stepping out, Dean whistles. He turns to John as he steps out of his own truck. “You sure we’re at the right place, Dad? We don’t usually visit palaces,” he teases.  
  
John grunts at him but his lips are quirked into an amused smile. “Trust me, Dean, this is it. Come on, let’s go in and meet the family. Sammy?”  
  
Sam rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I know, stay in the car, keep outta sight and have the shotgun loaded. Got it.”  
  
John nods, approving, before motioning for Castiel and Dean to follow him up the steps.

_October, 2008_

  
  
“That’s Caspar, alright,” said Sam once the angels were gone.  
  
“What makes you say that?”  
  
He shrugged, “I dunno, just... the way he holds himself, the way he talks—and the way he looks at you. It’s definitely him.”  
  
Dean blushed and ducked his head to hide his face. “The way he looks at me?” he couldn’t help ask.  
  
“Like you’re an impossibly hard Chinese puzzle box that he wants to put down but can’t.” Sam crossed the room in three long strides, grabbing two beers from the fridge, before returning to his place on the bed beside Dean’s. He handed a bottle to Dean, who accepted it gratefully. Sam smiled. “He had the exact look on his face when we first met him and you treated him like shit for the first few weeks, like a kicked puppy who didn’t know what he did wrong.”  
  
“I didn’t treat him _that_ badly,” protested Dean, even though, yeah, he kind of did. But he said he was sorry! “Besides, he doesn’t remember me now.” He took a long swig from his beer but didn’t feel anywhere near buzzed yet. He was surprised he’d lasted this long in the conversation with Sam sober. Whenever his brother tried to bring Caspar up in the years after he died, Dean always cut him off and practically ran in the other direction. Cowardly maybe, but it worked every time.  
  
Again, Sam shrugged. “Well... maybe he’s got amnesia or something.”  
  
“That still doesn’t explain how he hasn’t aged a day since we last saw him. I told you, that angel has to be using Caspar as a vessel. Maybe... maybe that was what he meant by ‘special people’. People like Caspar who had those weird, funky powers.”  
  
“I don’t think so,” said Sam honestly. “If he were using Caspar as a vessel, I’m sure he would’ve known about you—I mean, _us_. It’s... I know it’s not the same thing, but angel possession sounds a lot like demonic possession, no matter how you slice it. The minute the demon’s in a person’s body, they get everything—memories, fears, and all those other lovely things they use to their advantage. But it doesn’t look like Castiel knows anything about you at all. So... ” He threw his hands up in defeat. “I got nothing.”  
  
“Thanks, Sherlock.”  
  
“But,” continued Sam. “I _know_ that’s Caspar. I don’t know how or why, but... Dean, trust me on this. Please?”  
  
Dean buried his face in his hands and wished a black hole in the floor would open so he could get swallowed into the depths of the earth. He just wanted to fall asleep, disappear and never wake up again. He couldn’t deal with all of this—not now, hopefully not _ever_ , but he had a feeling that it was about to get a whole lot worse before it got better. If it ever will.

_July, 1996_

  
  
“—and they just found him lying there in the park, and he was blathering nonsense and... and... ” Katherine Park burst into tears once again. Dean barely stifles a sigh as he hands her a Kleenex. “Thank you,” she gulps.  
  
“Don’t mention it,” he murmurs.  
  
“It’s _La Diablesse_.” All eyes turn to Castiel, confused. “The Devil Woman,” he translates, but the stares don’t go away.  
  
“The Devil Woman?” squeaks Katherine. She was the victim’s—Tony—fiancée. “What’s that? Is it some kind of cult? Oh my god, he totally got kidnapped by a cult that performed weird experiments on him or something and now he’s like this!” she wails.  
  
“No,” John says firmly, but it’s obvious to everyone in the room that he’s weary. He closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. “your fiancé wasn’t kidnapped by a cult.”  
  
“Then what the hell’s this Devil Woman thing he’s talking about?” Katherine’s voice increases nearly a whole octave.  
  
Dean shoots Castiel a glare. He can almost hear the _this is all your fault_ in Dean’s eyes. “It’s nothing, ma’am,” he says easily, “It’s Detective Jagger’s first time in the field and he doesn’t really know what he’s saying half the time.” He gives the woman his most disarming smile. It seems to work because she stops asking questions. John and Dean continue to ask her a few more questions, but none of them are useful to their investigation. They’re all mundane and asked mostly to ease whatever suspicions the woman might have that they aren’t genuine detectives.  
  
Castiel asked what the purpose of it was and why they could not have told the woman the truth, that they suspected her fiancé had the unfortunate luck to encounter a supernatural being and needed her cooperation to solve the mystery. This had earned him twin disbelieving looks from both Winchester men. “Because,” answered Dean, in a tone Castiel had heard many times before—from mothers speaking patronizingly to their toddlers. “people lie to get what they want. Sorry, buddy, that’s just how the world works.”  
  
“It shouldn’t,” Castiel responded. But he had been ignored. He doesn’t understand why humans think lying could possibly result in anything other than pain for all parties involved in the end. He’d learned that the hard way when he didn’t tell Dean what the Host had planned for Sam and Lilith until the last minute.  
  
They say their goodbyes to Katherine and gather around the Impala. John barks, “Alright, Caspar, what the hell is a Devil Woman?” Sam, still sitting in the car, looks up from his book ( _To Kill a Mockingbird_ ), ears perked.  
  
“She is a prominent character in Caribbean folklore, very similar to North America’s ‘Woman in White’.”  
  
“That poor son of a bitch,” sighs Dean under his breath, shaking his head in memory of Tony Waddell. “So this Devil Woman... she caught her husband cheating on her, drowned her kids in a fit of rage, then killed herself?”  
  
“No one knows the origin of _La Diablesse_ ,” Castiel admits. “but her characteristics are nearly identical to the Woman in White. She roams the streets at night, making her presence known by the sound of her cloven feet.”  
  
“Cloven feet?” echoes Sam.  
  
“Well, that explains the ‘devil’ part,” mutters John.  
  
“Yes. She wears an ancient but elegant dress native to the islands as well as a large, wide-brimmed hat to cover her hideous face. That is how she attracts men to her. Once she has them trapped under her spell, she will lead them into the dark forest and leave them, lost until they either die or go mad. It would appear our... ‘vic’ has fallen prey to the latter.”  
  
Dean snorts, “I dunno about that. To be dead or locked in the nuthouse for the rest of your miserable life? I’d rather die.” The words echo eerily through Castiel’s being and he fights down a shudder.  
  
“No, you shouldn’t,” he says harshly.  
  
Dean looks offended and opens his mouth to reply when John cuts him off. He only spares his son a brief look of warning before turning his eyes to Castiel. “How do you know it’s a Devil Woman?” he asks, suspicious.  
  
“I’ve been... hunting for a very long time,” says Castiel. In truth, he’d known the moment they arrived in the woman’s house. He could smell _La Diablesse_ ’s scent in the doorway. Burnt flesh, dry leaves, and old exotic perfume. She had never been near the house, but her encounter with the victim had left a mark in her victim’s home. “I can recognize the signs easily now.”  
  
“Dad, you can’t really trust him just like that, can you?” asks Dean.  
  
John is silent for a long moment. Then, “Alright. Dean, Sam, both of you are going to the library to do some research on this Devil Woman. If what you find matches what Caspar says, we’ll do things his way. If not, then find the best way to take this bitch down.”  
  
Dean is flabbergasted. “Dad, this is just hearsay! You can’t—”  
  
“ _Yes_ , I can and I have,” says John. His voice and gaze leave no room for argument. “Dean, I’m tired of your attitude. You’re going to either do as I say now or sit out for the next three hunts. Understand?”  
  
Dean looks down at his feet, fists balled up tightly by his side. “Yes, sir,” he mumbles.  
  
“Good.” John turns to Castiel, “Now, say you _are_ right about this... Devil Woman. What do we need to do to get rid of her for good?”  
  
The answer is easy. “We have to find the object that tethers her to this world and burn it.”

*

  
  
Much to Sam’s dismay, Dean is chosen by John as bait for _La Diablesse_ , buying Castiel time to find the object keeping her on this plane and destroying it. Dean accepts the decision all too readily, joking with Sam about how _La Diablesse_ “would have trouble keeping her hands off” him. “Dean, if I remember correctly, _you_ were the one who had trouble keeping your hands to yourself the last time we used you as bait. At the haunted brothel,” Sam reminds him.  
  
“I was the distraction, remember? Gave Dad enough time to salt and burn those hookers’ remains, anyway.”  
  
“No, I think it was _you_ who got more distracted. Dad was just lucky he got to them in time before they cut off your—” But the truth concerning what the spirits of the prostitutes were about to do to Dean remains a mystery, as Dean interrupts Sam by tackling him on the bed and instigating a brief wrestling match between them.  
  
Before leaving to find the object, Castiel instructs Dean to turn his clothes inside-out if he is ever in danger. “The sight of unkempt clothes is considered ugly to _La Diablesse_ and will dissuade her from going near you.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” is Dean’s response.  
  
After Dean and John set off, leaving Sam with Castiel, Castiel closes his eyes, inhales and exhales deeply, and reached out with his Grace. There are many restless spirits trapped in Paris, Idaho, but tonight he is looking for one.  
  
“Caspar?” Sam whispers hesitantly. “What’re you doing?”  
  
“I am trying to find the artifact keeping _La Diablesse_ here. I must concentrate.”  
  
“Oh, sorry.”  
  
“It’s alright.”  
  
It takes Castiel five minutes to find it—a gold necklace that had been sitting in one of the town’s antique shops for fifty years—fives minutes longer than it should have been, but he supposes he should count himself fortunate. At least he still has most of his powers, despite being trapped in the past. Losing the ability to use his wings is an unfortunate, but small price to pay if he is able to retain the rest of his powers.  
  
He and Sam, neither able to drive, are forced to walk twenty minutes around town until they are on the front steps of the antique shop. “Breaking and entering,” grumbles Sam. “This is gonna be fun.”  
  
Sam gently nudges Castiel aside, kneels down in front of the door, and picks the lock. “This isn’t right,” says Castiel, but he doesn’t try to stop Sam either.  
  
“No, but it’s the only thing we can do,” answers Sam, but he sounds guilty, too. “otherwise Dean’s gonna be toast soon. Ah, there we go.” He slowly pushes the door open before stepping inside, motioning for Castiel to follow.  
  
They were lucky that the spirit had been too preoccupied with Dean to notice when they found her necklace and quickly salted and burned it. According to John, Dean had somehow trapped himself in between taking off his shirt (“Only to turn it backwards!”) with his pants down to his ankles when _La Diablesse_ vanished in a blaze, leaving nothing behind except the echo of a blood-curdling scream.


	3. Chapter 3

_August, 1996_

  
  
After the _La Diablesse_ case, the Winchesters’ lives change, though not nearly as drastic as Castiel feared. They continue to do what they’ve always done, but the process is different now.  
  
Amidst his research on Azazel, John continues to find them cases to investigate. Most of them turn out to be genuine, supernatural-related incidents. It doesn’t take them long to finish hunts—a day and a half at most—and it’s usually due to Castiel’s powers. It’s simply a fact, though Castiel can’t help but feel a flutter of pride when John and Sam congratulate him on a job well done. Dean is always strangely silent during those times, but he grudgingly gives Castiel looks of acknowledgement once in a while.  
  
Castiel can, as John describes it, “spot the problem miles away”. Patterns that are invisible to the human eye are clear and bright like stars to him.   
  
He can sense the Winchesters’ growing curiosity about his true identity but none of them have approached him yet. John had kept his word to Missouri that he would “leave Caspar well alone and let him do his thing” and his sons have followed suit, deciding that their father must have a good reason for not confronting Castiel yet. He doesn’t think he will ever cease being grateful to Missouri for her help.  
  
Sam took to Castiel quickly, more intrigued than scared by his powers and wealth of knowledge. And Castiel realizes that despite the demon blood running through Sam’s veins, despite what the rest of the Host says about the Boy King, he can hardly see any darkness in the boy now. His soul is mostly pure, innocent, and warm. He is always asking Castiel questions—verification of an event in history, the proper construction of a Latin sentence—and Castiel can’t help but enjoy playing the role of teacher to Sam.  
  
Unlike the rest of his family, Dean still isn’t convinced that Castiel is anything but a monster. He doesn’t say it, but Castiel can hear the words—sharp and deafening—every day.  
  
Whenever Dean’s eyes settle on him, Castiel can feel a wave of anger radiating from him like one of the too-loud songs he constantly plays in the Impala. It can’t be ignored. He knows on a technical level that he is not at fault, that Dean is letting his ties to his family cloud his judgment. He’s angry at John for accepting Castiel so easily, for throwing the word ‘family’ around like it means nothing, but Dean is Dean. He can never be angry with John so he directs his rage at an easier target instead, which happens to be Castiel.  
  
He is also jealous of Castiel, jealous that Sam doesn’t go to him with questions anymore, but to whom he perceives as a random stranger instead.  
  
On a certain level, Castiel can sympathize with Dean’s feelings. But for the most part, he finds it incredibly frustrating. He is not the one at fault yet Dean still treats him as if he’s the enemy. He tries to befriend Dean, because surely if he was able to establish a tentative relationship with the Dean in the future, he can do so once again? But Dean rebuffs him at every turn. He hardly speaks to Castiel and when he must, it’s in clipped, single word responses. He tries his best to ignore Castiel’s presence, pretend that it’s just him, his brother, and father. Like nothing has changed at all.  
  
The only time he acknowledges Castiel’s existence and says more than two words to him is when he wants to challenge him. There is no denying that Castiel knows far more about the things they hunt than John Winchester could ever hope to learn, but even after proving it time and time again, Dean remains stubborn like a bull and doesn’t stop drilling him with harsh questions and spitting out snide remarks when neither John nor Sam are present.  
  
“How do you know it’s a Banshee we’re dealing with?”  
  
“If it’s not a witch, then what the hell is it?”  
  
“Why should we trust you?”  
  
Dean never fails to ask that question and Castiel never fails to answer, “Because I want to help.”  
  
In accordance to the trend, Dean would usually respond with a scoff, “Yeah, right.”  
  
It’s a little disheartening, Castiel decides.

*

  
  
It’s just Dean and Castiel on the next hunt, much to Dean’s chagrin and Sam’s delight. With September looming so closely on the horizon, John is forced to start thinking about sending Sam to school. After a few minutes of deciding, he chooses a public school somewhere just outside of Phoenix, Arizona. “Not that it’ll make a difference,” Sam had mumbled to Castiel. “We’ll end up moving in two weeks. Three, if we’re lucky.” Castiel doesn’t believe for a second that it’s a coincidence the hunt he and Dean are to embark on takes place in the very same state that Sam is about to go to school in, but he doesn’t comment on it.  
  
“Hey, Dad’s got his reasons,” Dean snapped back. He had been in a foul mood all morning, since John announced they needed to go their separate ways. “We can’t just stay in one spot while—”  
  
“Yeah, yeah, I know. While other people are getting hurt out there,” Sam’s voice dropped to a baritone as he mimicked his father.  
  
Dean wasn’t amused.  
  
“You two going to be okay by yourselves?” John addresses him and Castiel as he’s loading the truck with his belongings. Sam finished packing well before him and is already sitting in the passenger seat, as if being there could somehow make time fly faster.  
  
Dean flashes John a winning smile. “Don’t worry about us, Dad. Caspar and I are gonna be just fine.” He slaps Castiel hard on the back but it’s Dean who stumbles back at the force of it. “Jesus... ” he mutters. “what the hell are you? Superman?”  
  
“Superman?”  
  
“Yeah, you know, the Man of Steel? Is super strong and can shoot heat lasers from his eyes?”  
  
Castiel blinks. “I am not made of steel, nor do I shoot heat lasers from my eyes,” he answers slowly.  
  
Dean laughs and it’s the first time Castiel has heard him laugh with genuine amusement and no bitterness layering his voice. “Never mind,” says Dean.  
  
John isn’t happy about leaving Dean and Castiel alone either, but the job at Badger Lake, Arizona can’t be ignored. Too many people have gone missing already. He looks even less happy about registering Sam to a school and made no effort to hide his opinions on the prospect. Sam only gritted his teeth and bore his father’s complaints in silence, if only to keep him from deciding that sending Sam to school wasn’t worth the hassle and forcing him to drop out.  
  
“Take care now,” is the last thing John says to Dean and Caspar. He gets into the truck with a loud slam of the door and doesn’t even spare them a glance as he drives out. Only Sam turns back to give them a wave.

*

  
  
There is nothing natural about the disappearances at Badger Lake at all. Castiel discovers that even the humans of Show Low, the closest city he and Dean could find near Badger Lake, were beginning to wonder what was the real cause behind them.  
  
The moment they arrive at the city, Castiel can already sense that there is something distinctly not human permeating air. When he mentions it, Dean snorts. “You sure it’s just not the summer heat getting to you?” It is already August, two months since Castiel found the Winchesters in Maine. The weather is scorching, Castiel knows this, but it doesn’t affect him. He can feel the heat baring down on Jimmy’s body like a thick, scratchy blanket, but it doesn’t cause him nearly as much discomfort as it causes Dean.  
  
“You will overheat if you continue to wear your jacket,” Castiel advises him.  
  
Dean glares and only pulls his leather jacket closer to himself, adamantly ignoring the heat searing his skin. “I’ll be fine, _Mom_ ,” he says scathingly. “now come on, we’ve got people to see and a monster to gank.”

*

  
  
No one knows anything about the disappearances. After talking to some relatives of the fourth victim and still coming up with nothing, Dean decides they’ll probably have better luck at the library. “Never thought I’d hear myself say that,” he tells Castiel, grinning easily. “It’s more Sammy’s thing.”  
  
“I can tell,” Castiel observes.  
  
“Hey,” says Dean suddenly, quirking an eyebrow. “do you have any idea what this thing is? Since you’re _so good_ at it and all.” The words bite through Castiel’s skin.  
  
His patience with Dean is growing thin. Dean himself is a good person. He’s selfless, wise, and one of the most virtuous people on Earth, despite his self-doubt. But dealing with an angry Dean is beginning to wear him out. “This... This thing’s presence is old, too big. It’s covered Badger Lake completely,” Castiel answers honestly. “I can’t get a firm reading of its essence.”  
  
“Then what are you good for?” challenges Dean.  
  
Castiel doesn’t answer. He’s not entirely sure himself.

*

  
  
They spend three hours at the library but don’t find anything until the final hour. “Hey, check this out,” Dean calls from the other side of what the library has designated as the ‘study lounge’. He ignores the harsh glare he receives from the librarian as he makes his way over to where Castiel is sitting, surrounded by old books on the history of Badger Lake. So far, he has discovered nothing and the fact stings his pride.  
  
“So,” says Dean, presenting him with a thick book. “it says here that about fifty years ago, some guy and his wife lived in Badger Lake. The guy, Spencer Locke, used to make daily trips to town but just stopped one day. The first disappearance happened only a few years after that.” He looks up at Castiel, all business. “You think he’s got something to do with what’s been happening now?”  
  
Castiel stares long and hard at the page. “Most likely.” The pieces to the puzzles are beginning to fit together, slowly but surely. “And I think I know what we are dealing with now. Is there anything on what happened to the man’s wife?”  
  
Dean flips to another page. “As a matter of fact, yeah. She remarried almost right after her dear hubby disappeared. Huh.” He raises a brow. “And that isn’t fishy at all.”  
  
“It’s very ‘fishy’,” Castiel corrects.  
  
“It’s just—never mind,” says Dean, shaking his head. “So, what _are_ we after?”  
  
“Jack-in-the-Green.”

*

  
  
The first Jack-in-the-Green came into existence in England, at what was then known as Oldland Croft at Hither Green. Just as the monster at Badger Lake was once human, the Jack-in-the-Green at Oldland Croft had also been human initially. He lived at Hither Green with his wife. One day, he was betrayed. The man he thought was his most trusted friend killed him, tossed his body deep in the woods, and took his wife for himself.  
  
Years passed and eventually the spirit of murdered man somehow gained enough strength to form a solid body for himself with the powers of the elements on his side. But due to the violent nature of his death, he had no memory of the name of his killer. Without a name, there was nothing he could do to avenge himself. Thus, he spent the following centuries wandering the land that used to be his and killed any unfortunate souls who stumbled in his path.

*

  
  
Dean is less than thrilled when Castiel informs him that they need to go into the swamp themselves. “Explain to me again why we can’t just torch the place?” he asks, waving the flamethrower in his arms for emphasis. He swears when his foot gets stuck in a particularly deep puddle of mud. Castiel’s clothes are ripped and rapidly turning into a grimy brown-green color. He can see to it later but for now, he still has a job to finish.  
  
“Burning the swamp will do nothing but anger Jack-in-the-Green. We have to find him and deal with him face to face.”  
  
Dean groans. “Great, just great. You know you’re picking up my laundry bill after this, right?”  
  
“I can repair the damage to your clothes for you if you like.”  
  
“And let you touch my stuff? No way.”  
  
They head deeper into the swamp where Spencer’s presence is thicker, like smog, where the afternoon light of the sun is barely visible between the trees now. Dean had suggested separating earlier in order to cover more ground, but Castiel flat out refused. Without the use of his wings, there is no telling if he would be able to reach Dean in time if he stumbles on the Jack-in-the-Green before Castiel does. No, there’s too much at risk.  
  
Castiel suddenly stops and holds out an arm to stop Dean as well. “What’s up?” Dean asks cautiously. He readies his flamethrower and his eyes dart wildly from right to left, searching for any movement in the undergrowth.  
  
“Jack knows where we are and he’s here. I can feel it.” He steps forward and, raising his voice, calls out to the dark. “Jack-in-the-Green, my name is Caspar and I have come to give you the name of the man who killed you.”  
  
“This cannot end well,” Dean mutters. He clutches the flamethrower tighter in his hands.  
  
At first, nothing happens. There is no change in the winds. The Earth’s pulse continues to go _bump, bump, bump_ like a steady heartbeat beneath Castiel’s feet.  
  
It happens gradually. The area, already quite dark, goes completely black, as if a candle had been snuffed out, leaving nothing but deadly silence in its wake. The ground shifts like a wave underneath them and Castiel hears Dean yelp when he briefly loses his footing. He is back on his feet in seconds. Then, like a shadow, Jack-in-the-Green rises before them and continues to do so until he is towering over them.  
  
“Oh my god... ” Dean breathes.  
  
There is little trace of humanity left in Jack-in-the-Green. It’s only visible from his blood red eyes but it’s dying, slowly disintegrating from the heavy weight of insanity. He is like a tree; tall, thick, and nearly invincible, composed of an assortment of rocks, wood, and vines messily glued together to provide him a body. He extends a green claw, hovering just in front of Castiel’s heart. “ _Tell me,_ ” he whispers. His voice is brittle like bark and old like the trees of the swamp. “ _the name of the man who killed me and stole my wife away from me. What is his name?_ ”  
  
“Seriously, Caspar, I could just toast him now and be done with it,” Dean murmurs in Castiel’s ears.  
  
Castiel shakes his head, resolute. “No, he deserves to know his killer’s name. It might give him peace.”  
  
Dean doesn’t look convinced. “If you say so.”  
  
“ _I’m waiting._ ” Impatience laces Spencer’s voice.  
  
“The name of your murderer,” begins Castiel, “is Andrew Lowell. He and your wife have been dead for over twenty years.” He adds, “I’m sorry.”  
  
Spencer gives a roar and the soil beneath them trembles. Vines shoot out from the ground, trees—everywhere—and wrap around Dean and Castiel. They struggle desperately against the coils but their efforts gain them nothing but exhaustion. “ _How dare you lie to me?_ ” Spencer bellows. Then, without warning, they are lifted up into the air and thrown across the clearing into the nearest trees.  
  
Jack gives them a few seconds to recover before the vines are back again, this time wrapping themselves tightly around their necks. “ _You will regret crossing me, Jack-in-the-Green!_ ” Castiel can feel the vines squeezing the air out of his lungs and he instinctively lifts his hands to pull at the vines, though it will take much more than asphyxiation to kill him. Dean, on the other hand, is struggling frantically and that urges Castiel on. He sends a shock down the vines in the hopes of his Grace being able to do some damage to Jack-in-the-Green, and isn’t disappointed when the vines immediately loosen and Jack cries out in pain.  
  
Dean is on his knees and judging by his harsh breathing, he isn’t fully recovered from the ordeal yet. Still, he doesn’t give up and his hold on his flamethrower tightens. “Can we _please_ toast this son of a bitch _now_?”  
  
Castiel nods. “Yes, we can.”  
  
Dean doesn’t have to be told twice. He’s already got the weapon raised, aimed straight at Jack-in-the-Green’s head, and pulls the trigger.  
  
What Castiel hadn’t counted on was Jack being _fast_. He dodges the line of fire easily and dissolves back into the ground. “What the fuck?” yells Dean. He looks around frantically. “Where did he go?”  
  
“Be quiet,” Castiel commands. Dean obeys, but he’s furious. “I have to concentrate.” He closes his eyes and searches for any unnatural rippling in the Earth with his Grace. He hadn’t been exaggerating earlier when he said Jack’s presence at Badger Lake was too huge, had practically taken over the entire area. But just as he’s finally got a grasp on Jack he’s interrupted by Dean’s shocked cry.  
  
He opens his eyes immediately and turns to Dean, sees him being dragged into the mud by a slimy green claw. The boy’s eyes are wide with terror and the sight pierces through Castiel. “H-Help!” Castiel is at his side in a second, reaching out to grab his left shoulder.  
  
 _“I’m the one who gripped you tight and raised you from Perdition.”_  
  
He fights against Jack’s pull. Jack is strong but Castiel is invincible. With one sharp tug, Dean is secure in his arms, shaken but alive. Jack follows closely behind with a roar. “ _Neither of you will ever see the light of day again_ ,” he vows.  
  
Castiel narrows his eyes and, still keeping his arms wrapped securely around Dean, says, “You’re wrong.” He begins to recite a spell, weaving the words around Jack like they’re string until he’s completely wrapped in them. He finishes the spell just as the words light up around Jack, setting him aflame. Jack screams and thrashes, reaching out to Castiel but it’s no use. He’ll be gone from this world within minutes.  
  
Castiel watches with cold eyes as he is devoured by flames until there is nothing left but a pile of ashes.

*

  
  
“What the hell was that?” Dean yells.  
  
Castiel blinks. “What are you talking about?”  
  
“I’m talking about that stunt you pulled with Spencer Locke. He nearly killed us! If we’d only torched the swamp in the first place, that would never have happened!”  
  
“You don’t know that.”  
  
“No,” laughs Dean unkindly. “but you know what I think?” Castiel says nothing. “I think that you felt sorry for the guy.”  
  
“Is that so wrong?” Castiel bristles. Suddenly, he’s angry at Dean. All the frustration he had to endure for the past couple of months come spilling out of him like water escaping a broken dam. There’s no stopping it but Castiel isn’t sure he wants it to. It’s liberating.  
  
Dean seems to sense it and apparently chalks that up as some kind of victory. He plows on. “Yeah, because humans aren’t supposed to feel anything for monsters like him. That makes you one of them.”  
  
 _And herein lies the problem_ , Castiel finds himself thinking. “What are you implying?”  
  
“That you’re not that different from that Jack-in-the-Green, or any of the things we hunt,” says Dean, not missing a beat. Once the words started flowing, they kept going, unstoppable. “You may have fooled my dad, Sammy, and that psychic, but you don’t fool me. You’re not human. You’re a monster, just like the rest of them.”  
  
The words sting Castiel more than they should. “So that’s what you really think,” he says calmly, but a storm is raging inside him as he speaks. How can this Dean and the Dean he knows in the future be so alike yet so different at the same time?  
  
“Yeah,” continues Dean. “I don’t know what you’ve got planned but I don’t trust you. If you’re planning on hurting my family, you better get the hell out of here right now or I’ll cut your head off myself.”  
  
This is only one of the many layers of the problem. Yes, there’s no denying Dean’s suspicions of Castiel, but that’s not the main reason he’s so furious. Jealousy, betrayal—it’s all unraveling like a loose ball of yarn. Castiel is not far behind. “I mean you and your family no harm,” he growls, closing the distance between him and Dean with each word. Dean stands his ground, unmoving. “I’ve assisted you and John in your hunts countless times. I _saved your life_. What more do you want from me?”  
  
They’re so close now. Dean’s scent—salt, metal, and oil tinged with smoke—is a little overwhelming but Castiel doesn’t lose focus.  
  
“Tell me what you are,” orders Dean, his voice barely above a whisper but nonetheless threatening.  
  
“I can’t,” Castiel shoots back.  
  
Dean snorts and turns his back on Castiel, already making the trek back to the Impala. “Figures.”

*

  
  
Neither of them speak to each other for the next few hours. Too wrapped up in their own thoughts. It’s broken only by the shrill ring of Dean’s cell phone. “Yeah?” Dean answers. He listens carefully before saying, “Yeah, we just finished the hunt.” After that, he’s mostly silent save for the little “mmhmm” sounds he makes every once in a while as he nods along with the caller, whom Castiel suspects is John. He’s proven right when Dean unexpectedly hands the phone over to him, scowling, “My dad wants to talk to you.”  
  
Castiel takes the phone gingerly. “Hello?” he says into it.  
  
John doesn’t waste time with greetings. “Caspar, Dean’s going to give you some money. I want you to take a bus to Austin and investigate a hunt. Once you’re done, meet up with Dean and Sam at Phoenix.”  
  
“You won’t be there?”  
  
“I’ve got Sammy settled for school and in an apartment. He’s hanging tight until Dean gets there, hopefully by tonight. I’ve... there are some leads I want to check out in Lawrence,” he finishes quietly.  
  
 _He’s getting closer_ , Castiel realizes. He nods, momentarily forgetting that John wouldn’t be able to see it before replying, “Alright.”

*

  
  
Dean is more than happy to give Castiel the money he needs for a bus ticket. Castiel is too tired to be hurt or angered by this.

*

  
  
He finishes the hunt in record time, dispelling the poltergeist the very night of his arrival. Unfortunately, the next bus to Phoenix doesn’t leave until the next day so he is forced to stay the night.

*

  
  
The next morning, Castiel is hit with a wave of panic and _SamSamSamSamohmygodSammy_. He’d always been able to pick up on Dean’s feelings better than anyone else. Without meaning to, he forged a connection to him after pulling his soul out of Hell, but it’s never been this strong before. It usually takes most of his efforts to actually read Dean’s mind. Usually, he is able to make accurate guesses, but now... his thoughts are deafening, as loud as church bells.  
  
 _Sammy, where are you?_  
  
At that moment, Castiel knows what he has to do.

*

  
  
Despite the staggering number of souls in the States (over three hundred million, actually), it’s not actually that difficult to find Sam’s soul and follow it as if it were a homing beacon. He is Lucifer’s vessel, after all.  
  
It takes Castiel days to pinpoint the location of his soul and another few days to reach Flagstaff, Arizona by bus. Meanwhile, he’s constantly hit with waves of rising panic and despair from Dean, who searches frantically and uselessly all over town for his little brother. All anger and frustration toward his previous behavior now a fading memory, Castiel wishes he could contact Dean in some way, to soothe him and let him know that his brother is safe. But he doesn’t have a cell phone nor does he know Dean’s number. It’s a rather ruthless, futile cycle.  
  
When Sam opens the door to his motel room and sees Castiel, he doesn’t look surprised, merely disappointed. “How’d you find me?” he asks nonchalantly.  
  
“You’re forgetting who I am.”  
  
Sam nods as understanding clicks into place. “Your powers, right?” he says. “Are you gonna bring me back?” he asks hesitantly.  
  
Castiel sighs, not unsympathetic. “You already know the answer to that.” He pauses, then adds, “Why did you run away?”  
  
Sam opens his mouth to answer but is interrupted by a dog barking from within the room. Castiel tilts his head to get a better look and is awarded by the sight of a large Labrador Retriever bounding towards them. “Hey, Bones. This is Caspar,” says Sam, bending down to ruffle the creature’s fur, his face split into a grin Castiel rarely sees on the boy’s face. “Caspar, this is Bones, my dog. Well, not really. He ran away from his family—like me—so we’ve been hanging out here together.” The dog licks Sam’s face enthusiastically, earning a bubbly laugh from its current owner.  
  
“Hello, Bones,” Castiel greets seriously. The dog looks up at him, curious, but when it becomes clear that he isn’t about to join Sam in the petting, it instantly loses interest.  
  
“Dad never let us have pets,” Sam says by way of an explanation. Nothing in his tone betrays his true feelings on the matter, but Castiel thinks he’s become better at reading the younger Winchester. His shoulders are tense, hunched forward in defeat, and his eyes aren’t as lively as they usually are. “I just... I couldn’t stand it, being stuck in that apartment with him. I had to get out of there and bolted as soon as he was gone.”  
  
Castiel only knows one thing to say. “I’m sorry.” Nothing else ever seems adequate.  
  
Sam shrugs. “Hey, it’s no big deal.” But it’s obviously a big deal to him. He wraps his arms around Bones’ neck, pulling him into a tight hug, and presses a light kiss at the top of his head. “Come on, let’s get Bones back to his family. They put out a five hundred dollar reward for him.”  
  
“They must be really worried,” observes Castiel. He shoots a significant look at Sam, who averts his gaze.  
  
“Yeah, I guess they are.”

*

  
  
They take a bus to Phoenix with two hundred and fifty dollars in their pockets each. Castiel begins to loathe buses. The seats are always too cramped, the unnatural smell of worn fabric mixed with sweat never fails to assault his nose and almost makes him gag. Worst of all, the rides are always too long for his liking. He never missed flying so much.  
  
Somehow, they arrive at the apartment in one piece. “Dean’s gonna kill me,” mutters Sam as he steps up to the door like a convict facing execution. He knocks on it once, hesitant, and waits. Barely a second later it’s flung open and a blur of leather and denim flies out to engulf Sam in a tight embrace. “Oh my god, Sam! You’re okay!”  
  
Sam struggles, squawking indignantly. “Dean!” Dean ignores him, most likely on purpose, and doesn’t let go until it looks like his brother’s about to lose consciousness. Even then, the torture doesn’t stop. He immediately swats him upside the head. “Ow,” is Sam’s response.  
  
“God, Sammy, what the hell is wrong with you? Do you have any idea how much trouble you’re in? How much trouble _I_ was gonna be in if Dad found out?”  
  
Sam is surprised. “You mean you didn’t rat me out?”  
  
“I wouldn’t have had to if you didn’t show up by tomorrow morning. Speaking of, where the hell did you go, anyway?”  
  
“Flagstaff,” answers Sam, his face breaking out into a wide smile. “Oh man, Dean, it was the best! I didn’t hear the word ‘monster’ once while I was there and best of all, I didn’t have to deal with Dad! You have no idea how much he was driving me crazy.”  
  
“Don’t talk about Dad like that,” scolds Dean, but Sam ignores him.  
  
“Seriously, Dean, it was great. You should try taking a vacation like that some day.”  
  
“I doubt it,” Dean mutters darkly. Then, louder, he says, “Look, not that I’m not glad you’re back, but what made you come back?”  
  
It’s then that both Winchesters recall Castiel’s presence and turn to him as one. “Caspar brought me back,” says Sam simply.  
  
Dean is frozen. “But... how? I didn’t tell anyone except Bobby that you were gone... ”  
  
“I have my ways,” says Castiel, inciting a giggle from Sam. His eyes lock on Dean’s and vice versa.  
  
Neither of them breaks their gaze for a long time until Sam pointedly clears his throat. “So, yeah, I’m just gonna head inside and use the bathroom while you guys keep doing... whatever it is you’re doing.” He makes himself scarce.  
  
A few moments pass before Dean clears his throat nervously. “So... you found Sam.”  
  
“I did.”  
  
He shakes his head, disbelieving. His shoulders slump, like an extremely heavy burden had just rolled off of him, only to be replaced by another. He lets out a shaky laugh. “How did you even know he was missing? Did you just randomly bump into him?”  
  
“I told you, I have my ways,” answers Castiel, “and I wanted to help.” He has a feeling that telling him the _whole_ truth would not do him any good.  
  
Thankfully, Dean doesn’t try to get him to elaborate. “Thank you,” he says sincerely, so quiet that Castiel knows he wouldn’t have heard it if he were human. “I... why did you want to help?” There’s no sneer in his voice, just genuine curiosity.  
  
Castiel answers truthfully, “Because I like you.”

_November, 2008_

  
  
“I’m not like you think. I was praying that you would choose to save the town.”  
  
Of all the things Dean expected to hear from Castiel, that wasn’t it. It sounded like something Caspar would say. “You were?”  
  
Castiel nodded, his eyes never leaving the park. He watched as kids of all ages and sizes played on the jungle gym, the slides, and the swings, while their mothers sat in a corner and gossiped over the most mundane things. And just last night, the world was so close to ending. Castiel’s eyes, usually cold and intense, softened with warmth and he seemed to brighten like the sun at the children’s laughter. Dean’s heart ached. “These people... they’re all my Father’s creations. They’re works of art.”  
  
Dean remembered Caspar saying the same thing once. They were in a redneck town on a hunt and their reception hadn’t been the kindest. It was a small, close-knit community that didn’t take kindly to people different from them and Caspar stuck out like a sore thumb. Dean lost count of how many times he wanted to yell at them (with his fists doing the talking) for being dicks but Caspar stopped him each time. “Why don’t you fight back?” Dean had asked. “You could kick their asses ten ways to Sunday.”  
  
“I could,” Caspar had conceded. “but I don’t want to. These people don’t know any better. Fighting them would not be worth it.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
Caspar looked at him straight in the eye then. “Because they are all God’s works of art.”  
  
“He kind of did a crappy job.” Dean knew Caspar hated it when he made a snide comment on his religion, but he couldn’t help it. It was the one thing about Caspar he could never fully accept. But hey, relationships weren’t all about sunshine and rainbows. You had to take the bad with the good.  
  
But Caspar only smiled mournfully at him and more than anything, Dean had wished he’d just sniped back at him because then he’d know the other man was angry. He hated that Caspar never got mad at him, even when he deserved to be. “It’s the imperfection that makes them beautiful. You’ll understand some day.”  
  
What Dean didn’t say was, “ _You say that as if you’re not one of us_.” It wasn’t the first time the knowledge that Caspar wasn’t human, a universe of difference from him, made him feel like he’d been stabbed in the gut.  
  
“Can I tell you something if you promise not to tell another soul?”  
  
Dean blinked, coaxed out of the past by Castiel’s voice. “Okay,” he agreed.  
  
Castiel sighed deeply and although Dean knew he was probably older than the earth—being an angel and all—at that moment he sounded far, far older than he looked. “I’m not a... hammer, as you say. I have questions, I have doubts. I don’t know what is right and what is wrong anymore, whether you passed or failed here. But in the coming months, you will have more decisions to make. I don’t envy the weight that’s on your shoulders, Dean. I truly don’t.”  
  
From anyone else, those words would not have been much of a comfort at all, but from Castiel... somehow, they were all Dean needed to hear.


	4. Chapter 4

_October, 1996_

  
  
“I don’t understand,” says Castiel for the fifteenth time that hour.  
  
Dean twitches slightly but other than that, gives no other physical indication of his impatience. “It’s not that hard, Cas,” he says. “You just turn the wheel in the direction you wanna go while keeping one foot on the accelerator and the other ready to flatten the brakes if a family of ducks suddenly come out at you in the middle of the road. Speaking of roads, you always, _always_ keep your eye on it. That’s kinda important, too.”  
  
But Castiel isn’t listening anymore. “Cas?” he echoes faintly. For a brief moment, he thinks he’s back in the present, but one look at those shining, too-green eyes and that young, unmarred face and he knows that nothing has changed. Strangely enough, the discovery doesn’t disappoint him as much as it used to.  
  
“Yeah, Cas,” Dean goes on as if it’s not a big deal. He shrugs. “‘Cause you know, I can’t keep calling you Caspar since that just sounds retarded. Ergo, ‘Cas’.”  
  
Castiel grins but quickly dissolves into chuckles at the curious but amused look on Dean’s face. “What’s so funny?” he asks.  
  
“Nothing,” replies Castiel. Still grinning, he says, “you just remind me of... a friend.”  
  
Dean snorts. “You have _friends_? As in plural?” But he’s grinning too so Castiel knows he means nothing vicious by it. “Whatever, I’m way cooler than your friend is.”  
  
The irony is too much and gets another chuckle out of Castiel. “Yes, you certainly are,” he agrees.

*

  
  
Sam was wrong. They didn’t leave Phoenix until four weeks after school had started. Castiel doesn’t know if it would have hurt more for him if he had been taken away from his new home sooner, missing out on any opportunities he could’ve experienced before he even got the chance to try them, or to leave after getting a small, tantalizing taste of it. After he’d just dug in his roots.  
  
The constant change of locations makes no difference to Dean or Castiel. Dean skips school most of the time. Unlike Sam, he never leaves behind any friends. Castiel, with no credentials, almost never leaves the motel rooms and apartments they stay in other than to investigate small hauntings and such.  
  
It’s as if Sam’s return transformed Dean. Whenever his eyes land on Castiel, it isn’t with venom, but with confusion more than anything. They rarely talked during the first few days after Castiel and Sam left Flagstaff. Whenever Castiel caught Dean looking at him, he would flush and avert his gaze, embarrassed. Sam would just roll his eyes in response and sigh. “Don’t mind Dean. He just feels like an ass,” he explained to Castiel once.  
  
“An ass?”  
  
Sam grinned. “Yeah, for being one to you. He’s actually a big teddy bear but he’s kind of a freak, too.”  
  
“Shut it, Sam!” Dean called from the other room. He sounded mortified.  
  
But gradually, little by little, he and Castiel begin to fall into a routine they are both comfortable with. Dean is usually the one who would instigate their conversations but they always taper off into awkward silence.  
  
“Hey, Cas, what’s up?”  
  
“The... ceiling?”  
  
“No, I meant how are you?”  
  
“I’m fine. How are you, Dean?”  
  
“... This isn’t gonna work.”  
  
But Dean, if nothing else, is relentless and stubborn, not one to give up so easily. Eventually, they find some sort of common ground and go on from there. “Are you one of the X-Men?” he asks once out of the blue.  
  
“I’m... sorry?” Castiel thinks it’s understandable for him to be confused. He has the suspicious feeling that this is another one of Dean’s abundance of pop culture references.  
  
“Yeah, you know, Professor X’s team of mutants who save the world and shit?”  
  
“... Not really.”  
  
Dean waves his response away like it was inconsequential. “I think you’re a mutant. A human born with some kind of gene that makes you... well, _you_.” He makes a vague gesture with his hands.  
  
“I’ve told you, I’m not human and I don’t possess any kind of phenomenal gene. I’m sorry to disappoint.”  
  
Dean laughs. “Okay, so you’re not part of the X-Men. Alien, then? There’s gotta be a reason why you’ve never heard of Led Zeppelin or AC/DC because, _really_? That is just _sad_.”  
  
“I’m sorry?” Castiel offers, though he isn’t exactly sure what he was apologizing for.  
  
Again, Dean waves it away. “No worries, I’ll just have to teach you how to be normal.”  
  
Sam decides to interject then with a mocking, “Sorry, Dean, but I don’t really trust your definition of normal.”  
  
“Oh, screw you, Sammy. You’re the biggest freak of all.”

*

  
  
Newcastle, Wyoming isn’t a big place so when the only high school in the area lets out for the day, everyone knows it. The bell can be heard even from across town, where Dean was giving Castiel his driving lessons in the empty parking lot of an abandoned warehouse. “Time to pick up Sammy,” he declares brightly. It takes a few seconds for him and Castiel to switch seats. “We’ll pick our lesson up later,” he promises.  
  
Castiel’s “Okay” is drowned out by the drums and guitars of Lynard Skynard’s _Saturday Night Special_ filtering through the speakers. It’s rough and fuzzy but Castiel makes no effort to change the music, recalling very vividly in his mind’s eye the conversation Dean had with him over the matter. “Driver picks the music,” he said solemnly, “and shotgun shuts his cakehole.”  
  
They find a disgruntled Sam and a grim-looking John waiting for them at the front of the school. Dean has barely yanked the key out of the ignition when he’s jumping out of the car. “Dad? What’s wrong?”  
  
“Nothing,” John says firmly, but his eyes tell a different story. “Sam, get in the car with Dean. Caspar, you’re riding with me. We’re leaving.” He doesn’t linger around to hear Sam’s protests, already opening the door to his truck and sliding in.  
  
Dean gives Castiel a helpless shrug and mouths “good luck” to him. This is possibly the first time Castiel regrets not being able to ride with Dean.  
  
John barely waits for Castiel to strap his seat belt on before his foot slams on the accelerator, pushes the stick forward, and they’re on the road. “What is this about?” Castiel asks.  
  
John lets out a deep sigh before quietly grunting out, “I found it—the... the pattern. Before Mary died there were cattle mutilations and crop failures all over Lawrence. I looked back and... it was the same thing before the night her parents died. This son of a bitch was probably behind their deaths as well, huh?” He doesn’t look to Castiel for confirmation.  
  
Castiel nods anyway. “That is correct.”  
  
“But you still can’t tell me what killed them,” John says flatly.  
  
Castiel shakes his head. “No, I can’t. I’m sorry.”  
  
The man sighs. He is disappointed but not deterred. “Okay.”

*

  
  
They stop at Michigan, one of the countless places victim to Azazel’s presence fourteen years ago. Even after John gets a hold of the people who could have possibly given him some answers, the trail is dead. So, not even a week after arriving, John immediately orders his son and Castiel to pack up what little they have and leave. They left the motel room virtually untouched.  
  
It goes on like this for a long time. Sometimes, they are able to stay in one place for a week and at other times even a week and a half, but never more than that. Even Dean, who is usually supportive of whatever plan John comes up with, is beginning to show signs of weariness because of their hectic schedule. But he endures it in silence, afraid of confronting his father, who could never do any wrong in his eyes. The only reason Sam hasn’t made a fuss yet he’s always too exhausted to muster up the energy.  
  
If Dean and Sam had not been factors to this, Castiel would not have cared for John’s re-ignited obsession. It doesn’t affect _him_ directly after all. But he can’t take seeing Dean and Sam wake up every morning with bags under their eyes and haunted looks on their faces, stretched to the point of snapping like rubber bands.  
  
“Enough,” he announces to John one morning. “we are staying here.”  
  
“What are you talking about?” John snarls. He looks worse than both his sons combined. His beard is a mess, having not shaved in weeks. His scars are more prominent now, traveling across his face like stitches. His eyes are wild like an animal’s.  
  
Castiel supposes this is the closest a person can be to possessed without assistance from a demon.  
  
“I’m saying that if you keep this up, you’ll be dead before you even find your wife’s killer,” he says. It’s the biggest lie Castiel has ever told. The truth is, John can’t die now. Of course, his death in the future was unfortunate and tragic, but death, like life, is sacred. One of the first things any self-respecting angel learned was to never meddle with either of those in the time stream. The results would be... disastrous, to put it lightly. “It makes no difference to me if you wish to continue hunting him down, but it does when you drag your own children down this road with you.”  
  
“Cas,” hisses Dean, but he falls silent when John’s hard eyes settle on him.  
  
No one says anything for a long time. The tension in the air is tight, too thick, and suffocating. Castiel briefly ponders the idea of reaching out with his hand to touch it.  
  
Finally, John breaks it with a shuddering exhale. Never has the cruel evidence of time been more visible to Castiel at this moment. “Am I getting closer?” he asks.  
  
Castiel can’t help but think, _Wrong answer_. But he says, “You will not find him in this world. He will not resurface for a long time and you cannot make him.” Castiel doesn’t say that to do so would be suicidal. If John knew there was indeed a way to summon Azazel, no matter how dangerous it would be, he will do it anyway. But this isn’t the time for it. Not yet.  
  
“You say that he’ll resurface?”  
  
“Eventually, and you will know when he does.” He leaves it at that.  
  
John contemplates this piece of information for a long time, his eyes scrutinizing Castiel for any signs of weakness. But Castiel has seen things far more frightening than John Winchester and doesn’t flinch. Eventually, John slumps his shoulders. “Alright, we’ll stay here for the month. No sense in moving Sammy to another school when it’s so close to the holidays.”  
  
Sam is not the only one who exhales a sigh of relief.

_November, 2008_

  
  
“We’re here for Anna,” said Castiel.  
  
Dean wanted so very much to believe he meant that in a good way, but something about the angel’s tone and the way his eyes hardened the moment he set eyes on Anna told him differently. Still, he tried. “Here for her like, _here_ for her?” he asked meekly.  
  
“Stop talking.” Dean kind of hated Uriel, despite his friendship with Castiel.  
  
“Give her to us,” continued the other angel, taking a menacing step forward.  
  
Dean took one back on reflex and caught a glance of Sam doing the same thing. “Are you gonna help her?” his brother asked, but he sounded dubious.  
  
 _Please say ‘yes’, please say ‘yes’,_ Dean prayed. It was irrational but suddenly getting Castiel to help them was the most important thing in the world to him. He was starting to like the guy, body-snatching notwithstanding, and he didn’t want to go back to the way they were before.  
  
Castiel, who seemed to have heard him (well, he _was_ an angel), grimaced at Dean but nevertheless said, “No, she has to die.”

_November, 1996_

  
  
Dean’s idea of celebrating is to take both Sam and Castiel out to the nearest bar as soon as John is out of the house, so to speak. He waited with bated breath for the familiar rumble of his father’s truck pulling out of the motel parking lot before grabbing them both by the arms and dragging them out the door.  
  
The nearest bar is actually a pub called the _Feather_. Although Dean had scoffed at the “girly ass” name, it was the closest to their motel.  
  
After settling down at a table, Dean orders a Pepsi for Sam, who looks like he’d rather be anywhere else but here, and a pitcher of Strongbow for himself and Castiel.   
  
“Why am I here?” whines Sam. “I’ve got homework.”  
  
“Homework, schmomework. One night of fun isn’t gonna kill you, Sammy.”  
  
Sam murmurs that he begs to differ but doesn’t say anything else. He leans back in his chair with his glass of Pepsi clenched tightly in his hand and pouts.  
  
Dean turns to face Castiel with a blinding smile. “So, Cas, ever drink before?”  
  
“Never.”  
  
If he didn’t know better, he would have thought he’d just murdered Dean’s puppy judging by the look of complete shock on his face. He eventually recovers, though. “Well, Cas, prepare to enter the exciting world of booze,” he says, pouring a significant amount in his glass.  
  
Two and a half pints later, Dean and even Sam are flabbergasted. “Cas,” says Dean. “you are the biggest liar in the world.” He narrows his eyes. Castiel remains still and meets his gaze confidently. “You said you never had alcohol before but your face isn’t red at all.” Dean sounds scandalized.  
  
Sam snorts into his drink. “Yeah, unlike you, Dean. You’re blushing like a little girl.”  
  
“Am not!”  
  
“Are too!”  
  
“Cas, tell Sammy that I’m not a girl.”  
  
Sam holds up five one dollar bills. “Cas, if you tell Dean that he’s a girl I’ll give you five bucks.”  
  
“Hey! No fair! That’s cheating!”  
  
Sam smirks but says nothing.  
  
Castiel looks back and forth between them with furrowed brows. The answer should be obvious. “Dean is decidedly not female,” he answers cautiously.  
  
Dean looks triumphant while Sam looks mildly disappointed. “Thanks, buddy,” Dean says, rewarding Castiel with another big smile. Castiel can’t help smiling back.  
  
There’s something different about being around the Winchester boys compared to when he took communion with his brothers and sisters. The atmosphere is obviously less rigid; more liberating. For the first time in a long while, Castiel lets down his guard. It should frighten him how easy it is for him to get along with Dean and Sam but right now, he can’t bring himself to care.

*

  
  
It’s been two weeks since John had left them to their own devices in Boston. He comes back every now and then to check on his family but he’s almost always gone by the next day.  
  
Sam continues to do well in school and even makes a few friends. Castiel knows it will be hard for him when they finally leave. Meanwhile, Dean continues to teach Castiel all the things he decided are essential to his knowledge on humanity—how to drive, what kinds of pies there are (and which ones are the most delicious), and what kind of music he needs to listen to. The last one usually coincides with their driving lessons.  
  
Castiel hadn’t realized just how much he enjoyed those lessons, spending time with Dean, until he finds himself sitting impatiently in the driver’s seat of the Impala while Dean shuffles into the passenger side one day. “Whoa, calm down there, Cas,” Dean chuckles, fastening his seat belt. “Wouldn’t want you to run us off the road now.”  
  
“I would never do that,” Castiel promised.  
  
Another thing Dean had been trying to integrate in Castiel’s mind were pop culture references. Whenever he had some time to spare or extra money to spend, he would rent a movie and sit Castiel down to watch it with him on the motel’s old, smelly, debilitating couch. Sometimes he’d rope Sam into joining them if the younger boy didn’t have much work to do, but most of the time it’s just Dean and Castiel. It was, as Dean declared, their “thing”.  
  
Castiel is fine with that, though more often than not, Dean’s movies leave him confused.  
  
Such as now.  
  
“This film is very unrealistic,” he observes.  
  
Dean sighs long-sufferingly. “Cas, it’s James Bond. It stopped being realistic the minute Sean Connery flew off in his fancy jetpack. Besides, people don’t watch it for its realism, we watch it because it’s cool.”  
  
“Cool?”  
  
“Yeah, you know, with the fight scenes, spy gadgets—the whole shebang.”  
  
“And we’re supposed to enjoy this?”  
  
“Yup.”  
  
Thirty minutes pass before Castiel opens his mouth again. “I still don’t understand why this film has been titled _Thunderball_.”  
  
Dean throws his head back and laughs, exposing his Adam’s apple against the light from the TV. His whole body is relaxed, a complete contrast to his thirty year old self. It’s almost enough to make Castiel regret it if— _when_ he returns to the present.  
  
Dean is beautiful, both in body and soul, despite his protests on the latter. It’s obvious to anyone with eyes to see. He’s not called the Righteous Man without reason, after all.  
  
His lack of faith in God—and himself—surprised Castiel when he first met him. If Castiel had a heart, it would’ve broken at the state of Dean’s soul after being pulled out of the Pit. Dean’s soul was fragile, strained, but there was still a great amount of strength hidden within him.  
  
His soul was worn and torn from so many years of abuse but Dean always stood proud and strong. Whenever he was thrown to the ground like a rag doll, he would always push himself back up  
  
Even after going through the worst Hell had to offer, the fact that he still had the capacity to love was a miracle. That was what had drawn Castiel to him in the first place. He had never seen another human being who loved as fiercely as Dean did. Never seen a soul shine so bright it was almost blinding.  
  
Castiel doesn’t realize he has been staring until Dean breaks him out of his thoughts with a quiet, hesitant, “Cas?” He’s forgotten about the movie completely and is looking at Castiel with curiosity. He gulps. “Uh, is there something on my face?” he jokes weakly.  
  
“No, your face is fine.”  
  
“Good to know,” Dean immediately jumps out of the couch. There is anxiety in his eyes and a flush on his face. “I’m just... um, gonna turn in for the night. You go do... whatever.”  
  
“Dean—”  
  
But he’s already gone, scrambling in the direction of the bathroom and slamming the door shut.  
  
Castiel sighs and slumps in his seat.

*

  
  
The next day, in true Dean Winchester fashion, he’s all smiles, having seemingly forgotten what had happened the night before. Castiel knows better. He had simply repressed the memory in hopes that he won’t have to deal with it. Castiel doesn’t bring the topic up since he is not even sure exactly what took place the previous evening.  
  
After dropping Sam off at school, Dean announces that they are to resume their driving lessons. “I still don’t understand why learning to drive is necessary,” Castiel admits.  
  
Dean looks at him fondly. “Because, you big dork, unless you can sprout wings and fly, this,” he says, slapping his hand down on the dashboard, “is gonna be your only reliable source of transportation from now on.”  
  
Castiel refrains from correcting him, that he does, in fact, have wings. They’re bottled up inside of him and it feels tremendously uncomfortable and sore, but they’re still there. Waiting for him to take flight once again.  
  
So, with a sigh, he braces his hands on the steering wheel and begins to back the Impala out of the parking lot, just the way Dean showed him.  
  
By mid-morning, Dean pronounces Castiel an official driver (“Welcome to the club, Cas!”) and as a reward, lets him drive anywhere he wants.  
  
Castiel does.  
  
Dean takes it upon himself to be his tour guide, making up outlandish stories about certain landmarks’ histories with Castiel constantly correcting him. That seems to garner a laugh from Dean every time.  
  
Castiel enjoys hearing him laugh. It’s rambunctious and brilliant, full of so much warmth and happiness that Castiel wants to curl up in it forever as if it were a blanket.  
  
He wants to hear Dean laugh more often. He wants to be the only one who will always make him laugh.  
  
“We should call you Encyclopedia Man,” Dean teases.  
  
“I’m not an encyclopedia,” Castiel informs him.  
  
“You might as well be, considering all those facts swimming around in your head.”  
  
“I suppose you’ll be my sidekick then?”  
  
Dean smirks. “I told you, I’m Batman. I’m already a superhero and Sammy’s my sidekick—Robin, the Boy Wonder.”  
  
They drive aimlessly around the city for the next few hours with no destination in mind. Eventually, though, Dean’s hunger makes itself known and he decides that they will be having pie for take-out. What surprises Castiel is the boy’s determination to have him try some as well. “It’s apple pie with ice cream! That, my friend, is heaven.” Castiel has a hard time believing that when he takes a look at the tiny pastry. Dean takes a rather large bite out of it and, as the saying goes, looks like he truly is in Heaven. He turns to Castiel with a wide smile and pushes the box towards him. “Here, try some.”  
  
“I don’t require nourishment,” Castiel reminds him. But his answer doesn’t faze Dean one bit.  
  
“So? It doesn’t matter if you need it or not. It’s all about want, though I don’t see how anyone can actually live without pie. Just try it, I think you’ll like it.”  
  
Castiel takes another look at the pie, then Dean, then back at the pie. He sighs in defeat. “Fine.” He scoops up what he thinks is a fairly decent-sized piece with an extra fork and takes a bite.  
  
His senses—though really, they’re Jimmy’s—are assaulted by an overwhelming load of tastes he’d never experienced before.  
  
The pie is sweet, almost unbearably so, cold, and warm at the same time. It reminds Castiel of the first day of autumn, when the north wind blows in and the remaining vestiges of summer fade away like shadows from the light. He begins to understand why Dean likes it so much.  
  
“It’s good,” he admits.  
  
Dean’s smile could light up a cloudy sky at night. “See? I told you you’d like it. You gotta try new things once in a while.”  
  
“You were right about something for once,” says Castiel, grinning slightly.  
  
“Oh, fuck you.”

*

  
  
Dean takes back control of the car mid-afternoon and drives them back to Sam’s school. Castiel understands the necessity of picking the younger Winchester up but a small part of him, the part that was born within him after meeting Dean for the first time in 2008, wished that they had spent more time alone together. Just a little longer.

*

  
  
Castiel is reading on the couch (a battered copy of _The Catcher in the Rye_ that Sam lent him earlier that day) when Dean returns from his venture to the bar. With a woman hanging off his arm like a coat.  
  
“Hey, Cas,” he slurs. He’s swaying slightly on his feet, threatening to fall any minute. Luckily, the woman, a petite brunette with stark brown eyes, is holding him up, though she doesn’t exactly look sober either.  
  
She giggles. “Who’s this?” she hiccups. “Is he gonna watch?”  
  
Dean lets out a loud, if mildly panicked, laugh. “Nah, he’s just a friend. Come on, let’s get this show on the road.” He gestures to the extra bedroom which was originally Castiel’s and starts leading the woman towards it.  
  
The door slams shut, followed by a resounding _click!_ and once again Castiel is left alone with the lingering smell of the woman’s perfume (lavender) as his only company. But even that disappears soon enough.  
  
He feels something coil within him. Disappointment, anger, and jealousy. He tries not to look too deeply into it but it’s difficult.

*

  
  
Kings Church doesn’t look like much of one from the outside. It resembles a warehouse more than anything else but the enormous white cross on the roof is hard to ignore. The same could be said for the congregation inside.  
  
Castiel could hear the singing the minute the clock struck nine that Sunday morning.  
  
Their voices are soft, like the whisper of the wind in the forest. It’s easy to follow the string of voices to the source. The light from the people’s souls shine like a beacon carrying Castiel home. By the time he’d reached the church he didn’t need the use of his Grace to hear their raised voices singing to his Father, praising His glory.  
  
When he steps inside the auditorium, the sound is amplified and would have certainly surprised Castiel if he hadn’t been expecting it. He slides into a seat the back row, content to simply sit and watch. The song the people are currently singing is not like any hymn Castiel has heard before but it isn’t unpleasant to his ears.  
  
On the stage there are two guitarists, one bassist, a drummer, and a pianist. Castiel closes his eyes and lets the music wash over him. This church’s form of worship is nothing like the way his brothers and sisters worship in Heaven but the intent is the same. Rather than causing him to feel homesick, being here gives Castiel a strange feeling of peace.  
  
“Didn’t think I’d find you here of all places,” Dean’s voice says suddenly from his left. Castiel looks up and blinks in surprise at the sight that greets him.  
  
“Dean,” he says, “What are you doing here?”  
  
Dean ducks his head sheepishly. “I... I woke up just as you were leaving so I followed you. I wanted to know where you were going,” he mumbles. He raises his head and meets Castiel’s eyes nervously. “I’ll leave if you want.”  
  
Castiel smiles and tries to convey as much warmth as he can. “I will be honored if you stayed.”  
  
Dean smiles back.  
  
The worship session continues for several more minutes. Eventually Castiel joins in the singing after growing more accustomed to the rhythm of the songs. Dean remains silent, his eyes alternating between observing Castiel and staring at the lyrics projected on the walls of the massive room. But Castiel notes with some satisfaction that every now and then he would tap his foot in tune with the music.  
  
“So, um,” Dean whispers to Castiel when the sermon begins, “are you... ”  
  
“Am I religious?” Castiel fills in mercifully.  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
He nods. “Yes, I am,” he answers solemnly.  
  
Dean furrows his brows, confused. “I don’t get it,” he blurts out. Embarrassed, he ducks his head down again. “I mean, no offense, but I just don’t... understand why you can put so much faith in this being that may or may not even be real.”  
  
Castiel wants to tell him that’s not true. That God _does_ exist, otherwise how could humanity have ever come to be? That they wouldn’t be sitting here now if it weren’t for his Father. But he resists and instead replies, “It’s the same way you trust in your father so inexplicably.”  
  
“But he’s _there_. I can see him. But your God... whoever he is... you’ve never seen him, have you?”  
  
“That’s why it’s called faith,” says Castiel, turning his eyes back on stage as the pastor, a rather young looking man, strides confidently up onto the stage. “to believe in something you don’t see, believe that there is a light at the end of the dark tunnel.”  
  
Dean shakes his head. “But if God were real, why does he let all the shi—er, crap in the world just... happen? Why doesn’t he do anything about it?”  
  
“Free will.”  
  
Dean squints his eyes. “Huh?”  
  
“The Lord gave us free will the moment He created us. That’s what humanity is, Dean; choices. No matter what happens, good or bad, that is your— _our_ gift. We’ll lose it the moment He raises a finger to change the world to the way we want it to be.”  
  
Dean contemplates his words for a long time and is so still during the sermon that Castiel would have been worried he’d fainted if he couldn’t hear the steady beat of his heart. Confusion and hope were the most prominent things swimming in Dean’s mind. “Okay,” he finally decides. “I... I sorta get it now. I still don’t believe in this God of yours, but I get it.”  
  
Castiel smiles and reaches over to grasp his hand. “That is free will,” he says simply.

*

  
  
Several nights later, the serene routine that has become Castiel’s life is disrupted. Again.  
  
Not one to break tradition, Dean insisted they watch another movie. Castiel instantly dislikes it and soon he and Dean are arguing good-naturedly over the semantics and the plot. At some point, Dean shoves Castiel lightly on the shoulder and it evolves into a full-blown wrestling match.  
  
Castiel wins, naturally. He flips Dean onto the ground on his back, straddling him. “I win,” he announces proudly. He has both hands on Dean’s shoulders and his face is only a few inches away from Dean’s. They’re both breathing heavily.  
  
Dean grins, “I guess you did... ” He trails off when he takes in their positions. His grin disappears quickly and a flush creeps up on his face. “Um... ”  
  
It takes Castiel a while to realize what the problem is. Once he does, he immediately sits up. “Oh,” is all he can say.  
  
Dean stares at him for a long time. His heart is racing, his breaths are coming in staggered and short, and a storm of emotions passes through his eyes. He pushes Castiel off him roughly and hurries to the bathroom, muttering a clipped “It’s getting late. We should sleep,” at Castiel.  
  
Despite the time he’s spent with them, Castiel knows he’s nowhere near an expert on humans. Yet, even he’s aware that this... this strange friendship he has with Dean has shifted. Something has changed.  
  
He’s not sure if it’s a good thing or not.


	5. Chapter 5

_November, 2008_

  
  
“Castiel? Oh,” said Uriel, mentioning the name of his boss like it was an afterthought. “He’s not here. See, he has this weakness. He _likes_ you.” The angel smiled triumphantly, like he just won the jackpot.  
  
 _He likes you_ , echoed Dean’s mind. His heart began to hammer against his ribcage so hard he half-expected it to burst out of his chest right then and there. It seemed to be doing that a lot lately.  
  
It felt like he was betraying Caspar—being happy that some angel with his face, his mannerisms, and even his goddamn voice, actually liked him. _Him_ , Dean Winchester, the biggest screw up of all time.  
  
He couldn’t separate Castiel from Caspar anymore. He didn’t think it was a coincidence for their names to be so similar to each other, but he’d still succeeded in seeing them as separate people since Castiel stormed through that barn all those weeks ago. Except now the line between Caspar and the angel were blurred and Dean couldn’t remember which of them was the one he was in love with.

_December, 1996_

  
  
It feels as if they’ve gone back to the day the Winchesters first met Castiel. A great deal of uncertainty, anxiety, and even a tinge of anger seems to follow Dean around wherever he goes like a dark cloud ready to erupt. Once, when Castiel hesitantly asks if it it’s because of him that Dean is feeling the way he is, the boy forces a smile.  
  
“It’s not,” he promises, with so much sincerity in his voice that Castiel is inclined to believe him. “I just,” Dean rubs the back of his neck and looks away. A small blush adorns his face. “I just need time to work some shit out. It’s not you, though.”  
  
Castiel gets the feeling that Dean isn’t telling the whole truth because he’s fairly certain that it _is_ about him, but at the same time he doesn’t get the sense that Dean is angry with him. Just confused. He seems to be more angry at himself.  
  
He doesn’t push for answers. He tries to give Dean as much space as he can even though he feels alone in the world and Dean is a million galaxies away from him. But Dean seems tremendously grateful for it and so life goes on in the final days of the year 1996.

*

  
  
Castiel tries not to look too distraught when Dean dashes out the door the next night without even sparing a look at him and returns much, much later in the night with another woman. This time, it’s a rather tall blonde with stormy grey eyes. He does his best to look nonchalant as they stumble into the room, kissing each other messily while fumbling with their clothes.  
  
It takes Castiel far more effort than he’d expected to pretend that the sight of Dean with another person doesn’t hurt him.

*

  
  
Christmas is looming closer on the horizon, garnering mixed emotions from the Winchester boys. Sadness and anger from Sam, and melancholy from Dean. From Castiel’s understanding of human tradition, this date should be bringing joy to them, but he already knows the reason for the lack of happiness in the Winchester household (figuratively speaking) before he even finishes asking himself the question.  
  
 _John_.  
  
Castiel knows that there is not much he can do short of going after the man himself and dragging him back from his latest hunt (and he has been tempted to do so more than once) but he tries his best.  
  
With the money John gave him he buys a book on hieroglyphics for Sam. Sam has been showing more interest in Egyptian history since his class started studying it last week. Of all the other nonsensical traditions of Christmas this is the only one that makes sense to Castiel—gift-giving. He doesn’t understand why humans can’t bring themselves to practice it more regularly.  
  
Then again, if finding a gift for Dean is any indication, he can almost understand why it’s only an annual holiday. Finding a gift for Sam had been fairly simple but finding one for Dean is proving more and more difficult. In the end, he is forced to ask the younger Winchester brother for help. “Sam, I need your assistance to find an appropriate Christmas gift for Dean.”  
  
It’s quite impressive how high he leaps from the couch, _The Odyssey_ forgotten on the floor. “Gimme two minutes.”  
  
It actually takes him one and a half minute to get ready. Luckily for them, Dean is away on a local hunt he decided to investigate himself (Castiel had looked into it beforehand and deemed it safe enough for Dean to tackle alone), which leaves them plenty of time to shop.  
  
Unluckily for them Dean had taken the car with him, leaving Castiel and Sam to walk to the nearest stores. They end up by the harbor amidst a sea of bustling shoppers like them. A few stop to stare at Castiel every few minutes. “You sure you’re not cold?” Sam asks after yet another person had stopped to stare at Castiel.  
  
“I’m fine. Why do you ask?”  
  
“Because it’s fourteen degrees and you’re just wearing a shirt and trench coat.” He tilts his head and scrunches his nose as he regards Castiel curiously. “I don’t think you’ve ever taken it off since we found you.”  
  
“I haven’t,” Castiel confirms.  
  
“Well, you don’t stink yet so I guess I’ll let it go.”  
  
They continue wandering down the streets. They stop a few times for Castiel to point out objects he thinks are suitable choices for Dean. Sam rejects all of them quickly. “Dean’s not a big book person,” he smirks. “So that rules out anything from Barnes and Noble.”  
  
Castiel is beginning to feel nervous, which is not an enjoyable sensation at all. “It seems I should procure a record for him as well.” Sam mentioned earlier that he had saved money to buy Dean a Black Sabbath record he saw at a vinyl record store a few days ago.  
  
Sam shook his head. “No way, it’s too obvious. He’ll know I helped you out so that’ll just take away the sentiment behind your present. You have to give him something that’s part of you, not just something he likes. Something that’ll let him know you... care for him.” His eyes are calculating, sharp as a cat’s. “You _do_ care about him, right?”  
  
That’s an easy question. “I do,” Castiel answers sincerely. He doesn’t add that Dean is the most important thing in his existence (maybe even more important than God, he’s come to realize). He’s not sure why, but he doesn’t want Sam to know. He doesn’t want anyone else to know, for that matter.  
  
Sam seems satisfied with his answer. “Good. So think about how you can show him that you do.”  
  
Castiel does.  
  
Dean is an enigma. Castiel isn’t quite sure when he stopped viewing Dean as just a human—the Great Vessel, Michael’s Sword—and truly began seeing him as Dean Winchester. The man who went to Hell for the brother he loved so much. Who always, without fail, gave everything he had in everything he did. Who had every cruelty imaginable thrown at him but still came out of them with a shrug and moved on, like it was nothing.  
  
He always picks himself back up and continues moving forward. It’s then that Castiel knows what he can give him.

*

  
  
Dean makes spaghetti for their Christmas Eve dinner.  
  
It’s not the picture perfect celebration usually depicted in Christmas cards and the hundreds of advertisements shown on television, but it makes no difference to Castiel. Sam and Dean tackle the matter of making dinner. When Castiel asks what he can do to help, Dean tells him to set the table. “Oh, and leave a plate out for Dad,” he adds a moment later.  
  
Sam rolls his eyes and spits out bitterly, “Like he’s gonna show.”  
  
Castiel knows that Sam is right but obeys Dean anyway. John is two states away; he won’t be back in time for their dinner. Nor will he be back on Christmas morning. But Dean needs the comfort of pretending his father is coming home, needs to forget about the dangers the older man faces on a regular basis.  
  
Dinner is quiet, filled with the comfortable hum from the TV. After that, Sam announces that they’re going to exchange presents.  
  
Dean, as Sam hoped, is ecstatic upon receiving Sam’s present (Black Sabbath’s _Master of Reality_ album). His excitement is matched by Sam’s when he gives his little brother a strange novel called _The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy_. Dean ruffles his hair, earning him a squawk of indignation from his brother. “You’re such a nerd,” he says fondly.  
  
“And you’re a metal head,” Sam retorts, but they’re both laughing.  
  
Castiel is surprised when they both present a battered Bible to him. The leather cover is worn and the once golden words that spelled out _The King James Version_ have faded to yellow. The only reason the spine is still held together is due to the glue recently applied on it, which Castiel suspects is courtesy of the Winchesters. “It’s not... It’s not in the best shape,” admits Dean, scratching the back of his neck. “But... we thought you might like it, since I know you don’t have one. I know it’s stupid—” Sam cuts him off with a light punch on the arm and a disapproving glare.  
  
“Why?”  
  
The brothers blink at him, like that’s the most idiotic question anyone can ask. “You’re practically family now,” Sam explains slowly, like the answer should’ve been obvious from the start. “Why wouldn’t we give you a present?”  
  
“Thank you,” Castiel tells them. “I like it very much.” He already knows every word from the Scripture, no matter what version, but knowing it and having it in his hands are two very different things. He can feel the sentiment behind their gift and it fills him with warmth. “I also have something for the both of you.”  
  
Sam’s eyes light up when Castiel places _Hieroglyphics: The Writings of Ancient Egypt_ in his hands. After gently setting the book down on his bed, he surprises Castiel by wrapping his arms around his middle in a tight hug. “Thanks, Cas.”  
  
When Castiel presents his gift for Dean, the boy looks shocked. “Cas—”  
  
“It’s a charm engraved with sigils for protection, luck, and long life,” Castiel explains.  
  
It doesn’t look like much but it has everything Castiel promised and more. It’s a simple silver ring tied to a long black leather cord, making a necklace similar to the one Sam had given to his brother all those years ago. Dean blushes and Sam grins. “That’s pretty cool, Cas,” says the younger of the two.  
  
“Yeah,” says Dean, his voice quiet and thoughtful. “I... thanks.” He carefully wraps the necklace into a small bundle and puts it in his pocket. Castiel tries to fight down the disappointment that bubbles up in his throat but he knows he can’t really do anything about it. “So,” Dean suddenly pipes up with a fake smile on his face. “who’s up for a movie?”

_December, 2008_

  
  
“What just happened? You and Sam saved a Seal. We captured Alastair. Dean, this was a victory.”  
  
“Well, no thanks to you,” Dean sniped. The moments he was nice to Castiel were already rare enough. This wasn’t one of them.  
  
Castiel squinted his eyes. “What makes you say that?”  
  
“You were here the whole time,” Dean accused.  
  
He knew he was right when Castiel didn’t shy away from his gaze. “Enough of it,” was his cryptic answer.  
  
“Well, thanks for your help with the rock salt.”  
  
Castiel sighed, sounding like a tired old man. A very, very small part of Dean couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. For an angel, the guy sure had it tough. “That script on the funeral home—we couldn’t penetrate it.”  
  
“That was angel-proofing,” Dean realized.  
  
“Why do you think I recruited you and Sam in the first place? That wasn’t your friend Bobby who called, Dean. That wasn’t Bobby who told Sam about the Seal.”  
  
“It was you.” Dean’s eyes widened. He couldn’t believe that these angels actually had it in them. _Son of a bitch_. Castiel looked down guiltily. “If you wanted our help,” he said, his voice quaking slightly, “why the hell didn’t you just ask?”  
  
Castiel narrowed his eyes. “Because whatever I ask, you seem to do the exact opposite.” The words tumbled out like a waterfall and Dean got the feeling that he had been keeping it locked up inside for a while. When he realized what had happened, Castiel looked away, as if embarrassed that he could lose control like that.  
  
He was beginning to crack.  
  
“So what now, huh?” prompted Dean. “People in this town—they’re just gonna start dying again?”  
  
“Yes.” It was frightening how sure Castiel’s voice was.  
  
“These are good people,” growled Dean. “Don’t you think you could make a few exceptions?”  
  
Castiel looked away from him, his eyes turned upwards to the sky. “To everything, there is a season,” he answered serenely, back in his usual angel mode.  
  
“You made an exception for me.”  
  
At that, Castiel returned his gaze to Dean, looking at him the same way Caspar used to. It was as if he could see every part of Dean, every single horrible part of him (especially the parts that still hadn’t completely left Hell behind), but didn’t care and loved him anyway. “You’re different,” Castiel said simply.  
  
And then he was gone in a flutter of soft, invisible wings.

_December, 1996_

  
  
Well after the movie finishes playing and there’s nothing left to see, it’s Dean and Castiel again, sitting on opposite sides of the couch. Sam went to bed the second the credits rolled in, leaving nothing but air behind him. Though a simple movement could close the vast emptiness between them neither of Dean nor Castiel dare attempt to do so. Eventually Dean breaks the silence. “I never did say sorry,” he says quietly.  
  
Castiel tilts his head to the side. “For what?”  
  
“For being a jerk to you all those months ago.”  
  
 _Ah_. “It’s all in the past now,” Castiel tells him earnestly.  
  
“Yeah, but,” Dean sighs. “I just... ”  
  
“You don’t have to explain.” Castiel already knows.  
  
Dean gives him a look, like he can’t really believe Castiel is there. “There’s one other thing,” he adds. “This past week, I... ” He waves his hand in a vague gesture that Castiel presumes means ‘awkward’. “I’ve been kinda spacey.”  
  
“I’ve noticed.”  
  
Dean winces. “Yeah, um, I just wanna say... it really wasn’t you. I needed to work some things out myself.”  
  
“Have you?” Castiel asks. He’s truly curious and worried. He hates the idea that there would be something bothering Dean which he can’t help dispel.  
  
Dean looks at him— _really_ looks at him. For a minute, Castiel wonders if he can truly see through Jimmy’s body and into his Grace, but that’s a ridiculous notion. “Yeah,” he says softly but with more confidence in his voice than Castiel had ever heard. “I have.”

*

  
  
Christmas morning passes by quietly and as Castiel and Sam predicted, John Winchester does not come home.  
  
He doesn’t come home on Boxing Day either. He only calls to say he’s on his way, which is just as reassuring to his sons as “I’m alive.” It doesn’t guarantee he will be back soon.  
  
When he calls on New Year’s Eve to say he had to take a detour due to a hunt, it becomes painfully clear to them that he won’t be back by New Year’s. Still, they all make do with each other’s company, with the boys trying their best to ignore John’s gaping absence. It’s not the first time Castiel finds himself angry at John but he refrains from letting the boys see it.  
  
Surprisingly, it’s Sam who seems more intent on going out to celebrate on New Year’s Eve than his brother is.  
  
“We should stay behind,” Dean protests, but without any real conviction. “In case Dad gets back.”  
  
Sam gives him a pointed look. “Or,” he suggests, his voice impatient, “We could leave him a note. Come on, Dean, I just want to go out and have some fun. Isn’t that what you’re always telling us to do?”  
  
And because Dean isn’t nearly as resistant to Sam’s ‘puppy eyes’ as he likes to think he is, he relents almost immediately. All three of them are out the door and packed in the Impala within five minutes.  
  
It takes them ten minutes to get to Copley Square. It’s packed with people and it feels like everyone in Boston is there.  
  
The entire square is alive with lights, people, and music. “And it’s not even ten yet,” Dean notes. “Come on, let’s get some grub.”  
  
Sam drifts off later on when he spots a couple of his friends in the massive crowd. After promising Dean to always stay within sight, he hurries off to join them.  
  
“You can go, too, you know,” Dean tells Castiel somberly.  
  
“Why would I do that?”  
  
“Because... well, aren’t you bored?” asks Dean, gesturing to himself and the bench they are currently occupying. “I mean, I think we’re the only two people here who are actually sitting down.”  
  
“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be,” Castiel says earnestly.  
  
Dean blushes. He’s been doing that a lot lately. “Really?” His voice is small but hopeful.  
  
“I enjoy being with you,” Castiel replies. “And Sam,” he adds, but Dean doesn’t seem to have noticed.  
  
He inhales and exhales shakily. “You shouldn’t say stuff like that,” he whispers.  
  
Despite the nearly deafening incessant chatter from the people around them, Castiel can hear him perfectly well. He shifts closer to Dean’s side and takes his hand in his. Dean whips his head up, his oh-so green eyes wide with alarm and anticipation. He doesn’t pull back like he usually does when they get too close. He seems to be waiting for Castiel’s next move.  
  
In that moment, it feels as if time has frozen. The people bustling past them are nothing more than wisps of shadows. The rest of the world, including Sam, has fallen away and now it’s just Dean and Castiel with nothing between them.  
  
Castiel can’t look away. “Why not?”  
  
“Because... Because that’s what you say to girls to get them to kiss you,” Dean replies, his voice a slightly higher pitch than normal. His right leg is bouncing up and down rapidly and his hand is clammy with sweat.  
  
Castiel shakes his head. “You’re most certainly not a girl, Dean Winchester,” he says firmly. This earns him a chuckle. “But,” he continues, “I would like to kiss you.”  
  
He wants to kiss Dean and hold him in his arms like he did on the day he raised the man from Perdition and show him that despite all his doubts, he is _loved_.  
  
Dean’s eyes never waver from his. He swallows and licks his lips nervously. “You ever kissed anyone before?” he asks shakily.  
  
“Never.”  
  
Dean’s pupils dilate slightly. “Um, okay then.”  
  
He suddenly surges forward like he has nothing to lose and presses his lips against Castiel’s. The touch is feather light and hesitant in the beginning, but grows more confident when Castiel doesn’t pull away. He kisses back, suddenly desperate for _Dean_ and only him.  
  
Dean continues to kiss him hungrily, moving his free hand to cup Castiel’s cheek and keep him there, right where he wants him to be. He tastes faintly of oil, pie, stale motel rooms, and the earth; Castiel can’t get enough of it.  
  
They are forced to break apart at the sound of wolf whistles and cat calls suddenly filling the air, breaking the spell. They’ve acquired an audience, apparently.  
  
A young woman steps out from the crowd with a mischievous smirk on her face. “Hey, guys,” she says. “I’m not sure if you know this, but you gotta wait till the countdown for the big kiss.”  
  
“Not that that wasn’t a good one,” pipes in a male voice from the crowd. The crowd rumbles with laughter, causing Dean to groan and try to hide his face. He’s failing miserably.  
  
The woman widens her smirk. “Oh no, we’re not saying that at all. But you know, I just thought I’d give you guys a heads up; something to keep in mind.”  
  
“Duly noted,” Dean says dryly.

*

  
  
They kiss again at the same time the whole city erupts screaming “HAPPY NEW YEAR’S!”  
  
Castiel secretly thinks this time is better than before and looks forward to sharing more of these moments with Dean. Judging by the look on his face, Dean seems to feel the same way.


	6. Chapter 6

_January, 1997_

  
  
“So,” Sam’s grin is far too wide to be considered innocent. “Are the two of you dating now?”  
  
As the human saying goes, if looks could kill, Sam would be a pile of ashes by now. That’s how intense Dean’s glare is. “Sammy... ” he warns.  
  
Sam ignores him and turns his eyes on Castiel. “Well? Are you?”  
  
“I’m not quite sure what you mean by ‘dating’,” he replies carefully.  
  
“Sammy, I swear to God—”  
  
“Like, going out and being nauseatingly couple-y. You know, making out _in the middle of the street where everybody can see you_ ,” Sam pauses to give Dean a look that says he isn’t impressed. “Holding hands and spending time together. That kind of thing.”  
  
“We already spend much of our time together,” Castiel points out.  
  
Dean moans and buries his face in his hands, muttering something about an early death. Sam’s grin widens. “Yeah, but see, you’re not like the other girls Dean usually sleeps with, you actually have some self-respect. And you guys haven’t even slept together yet, which is like, a world record for Dean.”  
  
“Sam!” Dean’s face is the picture of utter mortification.  
  
Sam shrugs, unapologetic. “It’s true.” Before Dean can reply, he is already turning his attention back to Castiel. “I’m happy for you guys,” he says, with a sincere smile on his face. “Really.”  
  
Castiel smiles back.  
  
“God, can this chick flick moment get any girlier—”  
  
Dean trails off when Castiel gently places his hand on top of his, curling their fingers together. Dean doesn’t pull away.  
  
“Aww, you’re blushing! That’s _so cute_.”  
  
“One day, Sammy, one day I am going to get you when you least expect it. Just you wait.”  
  
“Yeah, right.”

_February, 1997_

  
  
The transition from January to February is mostly smooth and uneventful with Dean’s eighteenth birthday being the only thing that punctures the routine that is their lives. Dean’s birthday is the one day John actually remembers to be back in time for, if only to tell everyone to pack their things and leave. As expected, Sam puts up a fuss but even he knows the argument is over before it has even begun.  
  
In the meantime, not much changes between Dean and Castiel. Dean continues to give Castiel “humanity lessons” during his spare time between hunting and looking after Sam. Sometimes in the midst of those lessons, Dean will casually take Castiel’s hand in his and steal brief kisses from him when they’re alone. Castiel does his best to return each and every one of those touches and kisses when he can.  
  
Although neither of the brothers are eager to inform John of this new development, that doesn’t stop Sam from constantly teasing them with knowing looks, mischievous smirks, and sly comments—much to Dean’s dismay. Even Castiel, who usually loathes being dishonest, knows that telling John about the change in his and Dean’s relationship would be suicidal if he were human so he, too, stays silent on the subject.  
  
And so, John continues hunting for leads on Azazel while remaining blissfully unaware of the events taking place under his nose.

_January, 2009_

  
  
Once Uriel was gone, Dean rounded sharply on Castiel. "What's going on, Cas? Since when does Uriel put a leash on you?"  
  
Castiel turned away. He looked ashamed. "My superiors have begun to question my sympathies."  
  
"Your sympathies?"  
  
Castiel inhaled. "I was getting too close to the humans in my charge." Dean stopped breathing. "You, even to your brother. They feel I've begun to express emotions, the doorways to doubt. This can impair my judgment."  
  
It took a while for Dean to snap out of the words 'close' and 'you'. "So they knock you down the ladder and put Uriel in charge? The demotion—doesn't it get your loincloth in a twist?"  
  
"It is what it is to be." Castiel's voice sounded gruffer than usual, the only indication that he was just as unhappy with the change in arrangement as Dean was.  
  
"Well, tell Uriel or whoever—you do not want me doing this, trust me." Before Dean knew it, he was begging. He never begged but for this he would. He left Hell months ago and didn't look back—well, tried not to look back anyway. Even the nightmares, though gruesome and unbearable, were nothing compared to what he had done, what he was about to do.  
  
Castiel looked almost as torn as Dean felt, but that couldn't be right. He was an angel. And angels were robotic douchebags with wings. "Want it? No," he said. "But I have been told we need it."  
  
Dean could feel the argument slipping through his fingers like water. "Cas, you ask me to open that door and walk through it... " he pleaded, "... you will not like what walks back out.”  
  
If he hadn't been watching Castiel closely Dean was sure he would've missed the gulp. The very fact that Castiel—Mr. High and Mighty Angel of the Lord himself—was nervous scared Dean almost as much as what he was being asked to do. He hadn’t realized how much he came to trust Castiel as his sole lighthouse until that moment. He couldn't even trust Sam anymore, not when he was running into fucking Ruby’s arms every chance he got.  
  
"You know what we're all fighting for. And dying for. You know what will happen if we fail,” said Castiel. He sighed, sounding like a being who carried the weight of the sky on his shoulders as Atlas did. Dean was beginning to hate the sound of it; it agitated him and made him restless. It reminded him too much of Caspar. "For what it's worth, I would give anything not to have you do this."  
  
Dean closed his eyes and, despite his head screaming at him to get the fuck out of there _now!_ , he knew what he had to do. It was the last thing he ever thought he'd do now that he was topside again, but he—it was weird; horrible, but weird—he almost felt obligated to.  
  
How's that for fucked up?  
  
"I need a few things," he relented.  
  
Castiel nodded but he didn't look any happier about the turn of events than Dean. He looked just as defeated as Dean felt.

_February, 1997_

  
  
“Tomorrow’s a big day,” Sam sings. He plops down on the couch, forcibly squeezing himself between Dean and Castiel.  
  
Dean’s glare is sharp and threatening as he pulls his arm back from where they rested on Castiel’s shoulders. “Sammy—”  
  
"And," Sam interrupts, nearly shouting now to make his voice heard, "you know what that means."  
  
"Um," Castiel replies.  
  
"Don't answer him, Cas," says Dean gently, reaching over to pat his shoulder in a reassuring manner. To Sam, however, he says harshly, "You, shut the fuck up."  
  
Sam blinks and the action is far too innocent, even for his chubby, youthful face. "What? I'm just saying you guys haven't really had a proper date since you got together and Valentine's Day totally the perfect day to fix that."  
  
Castiel concedes that Sam has a point. Between hunts and everything else he and Dean haven't exactly been 'going out', as Sam calls it. He has a fairly good grasp of what a date entails, though, having watched countless numbers of couples walk by him every day. Couples hold hands when they walk together, talk about the most mundane things just because they can, laugh together, kiss each other, and say "I love you."  
  
He and Dean have yet to say those three simple but heavy words to each other. Castiel knows that Dean is not the kind of person who shows affection freely, especially not in public. Even in private it usually takes a bit of effort on his part but Castiel doesn't mind. It's just how Dean is and he admires him all the same.  
  
"Besides," Sam continues, drawing Castiel out of his musing, "It's been, what, a month? That's like, a whole freakin' year for Dean. You should totally celebrate; get out of the room a little while."  
  
"I can't believe you're telling us to have a monthversary," Dean groans. "Seriously, how gay can you get?"  
  
"The fact that you even know what a monthversary is makes you even more gay."  
  
"How does this... 'monthversary' work?" Castiel suddenly asks.  
  
"Dude, no—"  
  
Sam is instantly crowding what Dean labeled as Castiel's 'personal space', a devious grin on his face and a rather troubling glint in his eyes. "It's like a date except more special."  
  
"... Alright."  
  
"Sam, stop filling his head with—"  
  
"Okay," says Sam. "When you're on a date, you normally go to the movies and have dinner. Or have dinner and then go to the movies. Either way works but no matter what, you gotta have both. It's like the sacred rule of dating or something."  
  
"Big talk coming from a twerp who's never been on a date before."  
  
"Dean, I know where you keep your Casa Erotica mags and I still have the lighter Dad gave me when I was ten. Do you see where I'm going with this?"  
  
Dean closes his mouth but makes a show of gritting his teeth.  
  
Sam smiles sweetly at him. "Anyway, that's a normal date. Now, on an anniversary you can do all that, too, but you gotta make it special. Like, go to a five-star restaurant instead of a normal restaurant; things like that to show the other person how much you love them."  
  
Dean's left eye twitches.  
  
Castiel is still lost. "I still don't understand."  
  
Dean suddenly jumps up from the couch. "I'm gonna go for a beer," he announces, sending a particularly venomous glare at the still smiling Sam. "Cas, you're coming with me."  
  
"No, Cas is staying here. He needs to be educated."  
  
"Not by you."  
  
"Did I mention that I still haven't told Dad about that time you scratched the Impala?"  
  
"... Fuck you, Sam."  
  
Dean stalks to the door, throws it open with so much force Castiel half-expects it to fall off its hinges, slams it close, and stalks out of sight.  
  
Castiel feels as if Jimmy's heart just dropped to the pit of his stomach. It isn’t a pleasant sensation. "He isn't pleased."  
  
Sam shakes his head. "He's not a touchy-feely guy," he admits.  
  
"Then why do you insist on putting him in this situation?"  
  
"Because," says Sam forcefully. "you're the first person Dean _really_ likes.”  
  
"I don't think so," Castiel says doubtfully. The nights when Dean frequently came back to their motel rooms shrouded in the lingering smell of all kinds of perfumes are still fresh in his mind. "If I recall correctly, he's been with many other people before me."  
  
"Yeah, well, you're the first one he's not gonna treat as a one-night stand. Ugh, I can't believe I just said that, now I'll never get the mental image out of my head."  
  
"Sam?"  
  
"My point is, you guys totally deserve something special for... well, what you have.”

*

  
  
Dean comes back reeking of beer, but he’s surprisingly sober. “Well?” he asks Castiel. “What kind of horrors did Sammy subject you to?” He settles down on the couch, leaning comfortably against Castiel’s side.  
  
He wraps his arm around Dean’s shoulder and pulls him closer, just because he can. “We have a date tomorrow to celebrate our monthversary,” he declares proudly.  
  
Dean wrinkles his nose in disgust. “You do realize that technically our monthversary was a week ago, right? Not that I’m actually counting or anything,” he adds hastily.  
  
Castiel chuckles and presses a light kiss at the top of his head. “It’s Valentine’s Day tomorrow anyway. We should take advantage of this occasion.”  
  
“Is that you or Sam speaking?”  
  
“Both.”  
  
Dean smiles fondly. “Fine, if it makes you happy,” he yawns, getting up. “Come on, up.” He slaps Castiel lightly on the leg.  
  
“What?”  
  
“Time for bed. Let’s go.”  
  
“I don’t require sleep.”  
  
“No, see,” says Dean, as if he were talking to a small child, “It’s not about whether you need it or not, it’s about being comfortable. Now are you telling me you’d rather sit here all night when you could be lying in bed with me?” He raises his eyebrows, smirking playfully at him.  
  
Castiel admits that he brings up a very good argument. “I suppose,” he answers, following Dean up from the couch and to the bedroom he shares with Sam.  
  
“Alright,” whispers Dean, so as not to wake Sam in the other bed. “First, you gotta take off your coat, tie, shoes, and socks.”  
  
Castiel readily obeys. “And now?” he prompts.  
  
“And now, you lie down on the bed and count sheep until Mr. Sandman comes. I’m just gonna wash up and by the time I get back you better be comfortable or else... ” Leaving what Castiel guesses is supposed to be an ominous threat in the air, Dean disappears in the bathroom.  
  
Castiel lies down on the bed, just as he was told, but it feels awkward and not comfortable at all.  
  
When Dean returns he lets out an amused snort. “You’re too stiff—and not in a good way.”  
  
“I don’t understand that reference.”  
  
Dean laughs softly. “Don’t worry about it.” He slips under the covers and throws the blanket over both of them until their heads are nearly completely hidden underneath the scratchy fabric, away from the rest of the world. Dean then tugs Castiel to face him until they’re nose to nose.  
  
“Hi.”  
  
“Hello.”  
  
Dean’s eyes are dancing with something that looks like amusement and affection. He leans forward to kiss Castiel, slowly and lazily, drawing the moment out for as long as possible. When he finally, regrettably, pulls away, he whispers, “‘Night, Cas.”  
  
“Goodnight, Dean.”  
  
Dean falls asleep almost immediately and soon the only company Castiel is left with is the melody of Dean’s breaths in sync with his heart.

_January, 2009_

  
  
“Is it true? Did I break the first seal? Did I start all this?”  
  
He wanted Castiel to lie, to say that Alastair was lying because demons lie.  
  
Except when the truth hurts the most.  
  
Besides, the angel seemed incapable of lying. Castiel looked at him with mournful eyes. “Yes.” That simple, innocent word pierced Dean like an arrow, more painful than anything Alastair could’ve done to him. “When we discovered Lilith’s plan for you we laid siege to Hell and we fought our way to get to you before you—”  
  
“Jump-started the apocalypse.”  
  
Castiel looked away from him, staring up at the ceiling as if it held all the answers in the universe. “It's not blame that falls on you, Dean, it's fate. The Righteous Man who begins it is the only one who can finish it. You have to stop it.”  
  
 _No, no, NO!_ “Well, then you guys are screwed. I can't do it, Cas. It's too big.” That was an understatement. “Alastair was right. I'm not all here. I'm not strong enough.” _I’m not strong at all._ “Well, I guess I'm not the man either of our dads wanted me to be.” _I’m a failure._  
  
“Find someone else,” Dean continued. His voice was beginning to crack. He could feel the tears brimming on the edges of his eyes and the last person he wanted to see him like this was Castiel so he turned his head away. “It's not me.”  
  
Castiel stared at him as he cried ( _like a little fucking girl_ ) but there was no judgment or pity behind those eyes, just sorrow. The angel didn’t leave for a long time, staying until Dean fell asleep. He knew this because the last thing he remembered before succumbing to his dreams was Castiel’s calloused hands wrapping around his in a tight grip.

_February, 1997_

  
  
The next day is a flurry of activities, starting with Sam waking up at what Dean called “fucking crap o’clock” and not leaving Dean’s side until he was up as well. “If I didn’t know any better I’d say you’re more excited for our date than I am,” Dean teased.  
  
“Nah, I’m just happy that I’ll have the whole place to myself today.”  
  
“Bitch.”  
  
“Jerk.”  
  
Sam practically pushes them out the door and into the Impala, with Castiel at the wheel and Dean on the passenger side, much to his dismay. “So where are we going today?” he asks once Sam’s back in the motel room.  
  
Castiel turns the key in the ignition and goes over the instructions Sam gave him. “It’s a surprise,” he answers cryptically, sending Dean a small grin.  
  
The surprise becomes clear to Dean when they pull up at the packed parking lot of a carnival. “Oh my God,” Dean guffaws. “Can Sammy get any gayer?”  
  
“Is this not to your liking?” Castiel asks, worried. Sam assured him that going to it was the perfect choice for a date but to be honest, Castiel would much rather do whatever Dean wanted. If Dean suddenly decided that he wanted to go on a drive instead, Castiel knows he would let him in an instant.  
  
It occurs to him how ridiculous he is for being so far gone for Dean in such a short period of time.  
  
 _Or maybe_ , says the Jimmy voice in the deeper recesses of his mind, _you’ve been gone for him since you met him._  
  
That’s... a very long time.  
  
Dean shakes his head, still laughing. “No, this is fine.” He turns to Castiel with a bright smile, which is almost as bright as the light in his eyes. “Lead the way, Cas.”  
  
In theory, Castiel is the one who is supposed to lead Dean through the park. In reality, it’s Dean who does the leading, dragging him to all the rides (except for the merry-go-round, explaining that it’s only for Sam and small children), pays for their food, and convinces Castiel to use his ‘mojo’ to win them prizes from the game booths.  
  
When Castiel protests, Dean patiently explains that they are all rigged anyway and therefore Castiel has the right to use his powers. He ends up winning a giant teddy bear, a dozen small dolls, and a goldfish that Dean christened ‘Chad’.  
  
Truthfully, Castiel sees no point in these games but they seem to delight Dean and that alone is enough reason for him to continue playing them.  
  
They spend the rest of the day at the park—going on all the rides a second, third, and fourth time, gorging shamelessly on the food, and simply basking in each other’s presence.  
  
At some point Dean gently brushes his hand against Castiel’s and curls their fingers together, ignoring the incredulous stares and a few outright glares directed at them. But that isn’t what Castiel is concerned about. The feel of Dean’s right hand in his has changed slightly. There is something cold and metallic on his fourth finger, a stark contrast to the rest of his warm hand. Castiel looks down and smiles.  
  
Dean is wearing the ring he gave him at Christmas.  
  
He squeezes Dean’s hand and feels a small burst of joy when Dean squeezes back.  
  
Meanwhile, the sky gradually goes from sunny blue to pale orange. It finally melts into a deep navy blue colour, which would otherwise look completely black if it weren’t for the endless stars dotting the Heavens.  
  
Castiel spares a moment to grieve in nostalgia. It’s been a long, long time since he was in Heaven. He misses the warmth of his family’s song, the love that glowed everywhere he went, the love that was always wrapped securely around his being, promising to never let go.  
  
There’s a void in him now, a void that the voices of his brothers and sisters always filled. At least until he rebelled. But now—Castiel turns to look at Dean’s profile, which is bathed in a palette of soft colors from the rainbow of lights surrounding them—now, the ache in his Grace, the yearning for his home, has dissolved into something less severe.  
  
It’s been replaced by Dean Winchester himself.  
  
“Hey, Cas,” he says suddenly, turning to Castiel with a smile on his face. “Thanks. Um, for today. I… I enjoyed it.”  
  
They’re currently sitting on the hood of the Impala, having grown bored of the park a long time ago but not quite ready to leave yet. The trunk is filled to the brim with their spoils of the day. They liberated Chad the goldfish in a small pond a while ago.  
  
“I’m glad,” replies Castiel. “But don’t thank me yet.”  
  
“You mean there’s _more_?” Dean asks, mostly surprised but also impressed. “What else do you have up your sleeve, Cas?”  
  
Castiel grins and tips his head upwards. “Just watch.”  
  
Within seconds the sky erupts in an explosion of lights. Dean lets out a whoop and his eyes never leave the meteor shower. Some distance away a group of college students suddenly bursts out in cheers. There is another group of people a little further away that breaks out in song. Everywhere Castiel looks people are stopping to stare in awe.  
  
“Now you can thank me,” he tells Dean, not bothering to hide the pride in his voice.  
  
Dean stares at him for a few seconds before tackling him and pressing frantic kisses all over him.  
  
Eventually, they navigate themselves to the back of the Impala, with Dean pulling his lips away from Castiel’s very briefly to lock the door behind him.  
  
“I take it that you enjoyed our date today?” asks Castiel.  
  
Dean scoffs, “You’re way too smug, you know that?” He transfers his mouth from Castiel’s to his neck, biting and sucking hard enough to elicit a moan from him. “But I guess you deserve a reward,” he teases, sitting up.  
  
“A reward?”  
  
A spark of pure, unadulterated desire flashes in Dean’s eyes. “Yeah,” he breathes, like he can’t believe they have come this far. He reaches for Castiel’s pants zipper. “Can I… ?”  
  
“Yes.” That simple, innocent word has barely left Castiel’s lips when Dean quickly unzips his pants and pulls them—along with his boxers—down to his knees. He pauses; he’s silent but the question in his eyes is hard to ignore.  
  
Castiel nods, though he’s not entirely certain what he’s giving permission for. But he stops thinking soon enough when Dean’s warm, warm hand wraps around his cock.

 

“D-Dean,” he gasps out as his eyes nearly roll to the back of his head. He knows what sex is and he’s seen it thousands of times before, but seeing and experiencing it are two vastly different things. Dean somehow knows exactly how fast his strokes need to be to drive Castiel mad with want.

 

He hears Dean moan, followed by the sound of his own pants being unzipped. “Fuck,” moans Dean. “You’re gorgeous, Cas, you… ”

 

He breaks off when Castiel suddenly comes, embarrassingly quick. Castiel sits up, feeling the tomato red flush on his face spread to the rest of his body. He tries to rein his breath in. “S-Sorry,” he says. “That was—I’ve never done this before.”

 

Dean swallows and his eyes darken with something like hunger. “N-No, that’s fine,” he laughs. “I’m glad that I’m your first then.” He hesitantly brings his hand up to lick Castiel’s come from his fingers and Castiel feels his cock throb a little at the sight, even though he knows he won’t be able to do that again for a while.

 

“If—If I may… ?”

 

Dean blushes and looks away as he tries to, not so stealthily, hide his hardened penis. “Um, y-yeah, sure. I just… I just don’t want to make you do something you don’t want.”

 

“Trust me, Dean, the list of things I _don’t_ want to do with you is a very, very short one,” Castiel growls, crawling forward.

 

Dean’s breath hitches, his full lips open in a small ‘o,’ and his pupils dilate even more. “Well, if you insist,” he says, his voice trying to assert a tone of coyness but mostly coming out breathy. The sound is wonderful music to Castiel’s ears.

 

Castiel cradles his cheek with one hand and pulls him in for a kiss. Dean opens his mouth enthusiastically as Castiel’s tongue enters his, exploring the unbelievable warmth inside. Their tongues dance together in sync now, the result of many, many previous attempts to get it _just_ right, and their teeth clack together like earthquakes, sending shock waves down Castiel’s body.

 

His hands drop to the hem of Dean’s shirt, tugging hesitantly on them. Dean, quickly catching on to what he wants, pulls his shirt up over his head, revealing a young, but firm chest that Castiel is very confident would have been the inspiration for Michelangelo’s David if the artist had ever set eyes on him.

 

Luckily, Michelangelo had never and will never be witness to this scene, otherwise Castiel might be tempted to pay him a little visit in his heaven.

 

His hands grasp Dean’s waist, their grip gentle and unsure in this new landscape, as he goes lower down Dean’s body. He leaves little bites on Dean’s neck, relishing his gasps and the feeling of his hands tightening their grip on his shoulders and the hair on the back of his head, and sucks on the skin. Little by little, he makes his way down his chest until he reaches Dean’s hard, angry red cock.

 

He glances at Dean and is almost tempted to go right back to kissing him when he sees how debauched he looks. His entire face is red as he struggles to breathe and his hair is a mess, just begging for Castiel’s fingers to tangle in. Dean’s eyes widen when realization dawns on him. “Cas, you don’t—”

 

Castiel ignores him and leans down to lick at the head, lapping up some of the tangy pre-come that has already gathered there. Dean moans and both his hands tighten Castiel’s hair. Castiel registers the faint sensation of pain but says nothing—after all, it is _Dean’s_ turn to receive pleasure and he is only too glad to be the one giving it. After licking a few hesitant stripes around Dean’s penis, he opens his mouth to swallow him completely.

 

A soft, reluctant cry escapes Dean’s lips as he unconsciously bucks up into Castiel’s mouth, hitting the back of Castiel’s throat. “S-Sorry,” he gasps out, sounding torn between his concern and pleasure. Castiel hums around him, drawing more gasps and moans from the boy, and starts sucking experimentally.

 

He seems to be doing _something_ right, because Dean squirms above him and keeps letting out a steady stream of moans. Castiel follows obediently whenever Dean’s hands pull him forward. He pulls off only a handful of times—not to breathe, since he does not need to, but to keep his jaw from growing numb—before returning his attention to Dean.

 

After what felt like forever but was really only a few minutes, Dean chokes out, “Cas, I’m gonna come—”

 

In response, Castiel swallows him down as much as he can and sucks his cock with even more fervor. Dean lets out one soft, final gasp of defeat before Castiel is eagerly swallowing his come. He cannot say that he likes the salty taste but it is Dean’s so he does not stop.

 

Finally, after taking in the last drop, he lifts his head. Dean lets out a shaky laugh. “W-Wow, you’re sure you’ve never done this before? Because, man, that was one hell of a blowjob for a first time,” he says. His voice is honest and breathy, so different from its usual confidence.

 

Castiel cannot help the pride he feels in his heart at the sight of Dean so ruined and beautiful like this. _He_ did that. He grins. “I must be a natural.”

 

Dean groans and tips his head back, resting it against the fogged up glass of the window. “Jesus—don’t say things like that, I’m not ready to go again for at least another thirty minutes after you practically sucked my brains out.”

 

Castiel laughs and leans up to kiss him. “I suppose we’ll have to wait then.”


	7. Chapter 7

_April, 1997_

  
  
The groan of John's truck rolling up the motel parking lot echoes through Castiel's ears at three o'clock in the morning. With great reluctance, he pulls away from the comfort of Dean’s embrace to leave the room, but not before pulling the blankets up to Dean's shoulders and brushing his lips against the boy's forehead. Just as he closes the door quietly behind him, he swears he sees Dean's lips curl into a soft smile.

*

  
  
Within hours of returning and stumbling into bed, John is already wide awake with a steaming cup of coffee in one hand and the newspaper in the other. Normally, the man would sleep through noon on the days he's back. Dean and Sam seem just as surprised as Castiel is when they shuffle out of their room and see their father sitting on the dining table like he had been there all along. On the table in front of him are a couple bags with the word ‘IHOP’ on them.  
  
"Hey, Dad," says Dean. "When'd you come in?"  
  
"A few hours ago,” grunts John, not looking up from his paper. “Eat your breakfast before it gets cold.”  
  
Castiel stands to the side as Dean and Sam move past him to the table, digging into their food with enthusiasm. "Ooh, pancakes!" Dean exclaims. He stabs a slice with his plastic fork and holds it up to Castiel. "Here, try some." By the time Castiel's sitting down on the table, Dean has a plate set out for him and is in the process of pouring a copious amount of syrup on his pancakes.  
  
"Is this much syrup really necessary?" Castiel asks. He's been to diners before. He knows that the average human wouldn't put this much on their food. Then again, Dean isn’t an average human. He’s far from it, in fact.  
  
"Definitely," says Dean, not skipping a beat.  
  
Sam rolls his eyes. "Sure, if you wanna get diabetes."  
  
"Well, Cas is an alien so he won't get diabetes."  
  
Castiel laughs along with the brothers good-naturedly as he begins cutting his pancakes into delicate slices. He catches a glimpse of John staring at them in wonder with a hint of jealousy hiding in the corner of his eye. _This is what you missed_ , Castiel tells him silently. _This is what you miss when you let the past consume you. Your family will grow and move on without you._  
  
After a long moment of contemplation, John finally seems to have settled on some sort of conclusion and goes back to his paper. But Castiel doesn't get the sense that he is actually reading it anymore. He's too lost in his own dark thoughts.

*

  
  
Their next hunt is at Centennial, Colorado, where a string of deaths (particularly _males_ ) has been occurring.  
  
“Maybe it’s a Woman in White. Or another Devil Woman,” Dean ponders.  
  
John grunts, “Would be, except they all died in their homes. Their partners all say the same thing; they go to bed healthy and don’t wake up again the next morning.”  
  
Sam frowns. “Partners?”  
  
Suddenly, John looks as if he’d much rather be anywhere else than here. “Erm, all the men who died... they were... ” He doesn’t need to elaborate as the truth dawns on them at the same time. Sam’s eyes widen but not in revulsion. He simply looks curious.  
  
Dean raises an eyebrow. Underneath the table he squeezes Castiel’s hand. “That’s... different,” he says carefully.  
  
John nods in agreement. “Dunno why this son of a bitch is targeting... well, those kinds of men,” He clears his throat awkwardly. “but we gotta stop it either way. Got any idea what it is, Caspar?”  
  
Castiel shrugs, a human gesture he picked up from Dean recently. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

*

  
  
After a day’s worth of traveling, they’re only three-quarters of the way to Centennial when they stop at a rundown motel for the night. As soon as they’re settled in, John leaves without a word. “He’s gonna get drunk,” grumbles Sam, with an obvious tinge of hurt in his voice. “He’s always like this.”  
  
Not even Dean protests as he usually does when Sam complains about their father. Even without saying anything Castiel knows that he is thinking the same thing. Why their father always tries to drown his sorrows and memories with poison. But Dean shrugs, silently asking, “What can you do?” and bears it like he always does.  
  
"I call first shower!" he hollers. But instead of dashing towards the bathroom as he usually does after calling 'dibs' on it, he turns to Castiel with a raised brow. "Wanna join me, Cas?"  
  
Sam cringes. "Oh, _ew_! Too much information, dude."  
  
Castiel tilts his head to the side. "You know I don't need to bathe," he says.  
  
Dean laughs and grabs his hand anyway, automatically tangling their fingers together in a familiar grip. "Well, I do, but I might need your help reaching my backside—"  
  
Somewhere off to the side, Sam lets out a loud groan. "Oh God! So much therapy, _so much therapy!_ "  
  
"Is there something wrong with Sam?"  
  
Dean smirks. "Ignore him, he's just being a prude. Come on... " He leans in until they're cheek to cheek and nips the underside of Castiel's earlobe, a spot they recently discovered could possibly drive Castiel absolutely insane. "... unless you don't want to," he whispers. His warm—too warm—breath tickles Castiel's ear.  
  
And suddenly he gets it. His grip on Dean's hand tightens. "I want to," he says forcefully. Dean's smirk widens and his eyes darken with desire as he tugs Castiel into the bathroom.  
  
Just before he kicks the door close, Castiel can hear Sam letting out a sound not unlike that of a dying kitten. "Dean, you _jerk_ , _I'm using the bathroom after you!_ "

*

  
  
John is all business the moment they enter the city the next morning. They stop only long enough for him to stick his head out of his truck and bark, “Dean, you’re going to do the interviews with Caspar today. Sam, you’re going to help me with research.” His tone leaves no room for argument.  
  
Dean nods, his face the picture of solemnity. “Yes, sir.” He gently nudges a reluctant Sam out of the Impala.  
  
As soon as John and Sam have driven off—presumably to the library—Dean turns to Castiel with a worried look. “Picking up anything, Cas?”  
  
Castiel shakes his head. “No.” He doesn’t sense anything out of the ordinary. On one hand, that means they shouldn’t be up against anything too dangerous other than a restless spirit or simply an angry witch. On the other hand, that still doesn’t narrow their list of possible monsters by much.  
  
Dean heaves a sigh, sounding like a tired old man. “And here I thought we’d get this over with by lunch time.”  
  
Unfortunately for Dean, they’re still no closer to learning any new information even after several very long interviews. All they know now is that the thing they’re facing is a spirit. Castiel detected its taint at every house they visited and it was always the same; the smell of gravel and dust fused together with unquenchable rage.  
  
“My very own EMF,” Dean teases, wrapping an arm around Castiel’s shoulder. “I don’t suppose you know who our spook is, do you?”  
  
“No. We may have to rely on your father and brother for that information.”  
  
As if on cue, Dean’s phone rings shrilly. Castiel can hear John’s deep voice crackling on the other line. “ _Dean, come to the Central Library. We’ve got something._ ”

_February, 2009_

  
  
“Hey,” Dean said before he could stop himself, “Do I know you?”  
  
Okay, so while Dean Smith was technically straight, he would not be the first to deny that he... _experimented_ a little during college. Now unlike that creepy Sasquatch he met in the elevator the other day, this guy was actually Dean’s type.  
  
His hair was a mess, making him look as if he’d just stumbled out of bed, and boy, wasn’t that a nice image? His lips were so kissable it physically hurt for Dean to keep himself in check. He had the bluest eyes Dean had ever seen. The way he stared intently at Dean like he could see all of his thoughts laid out bare just for him was, to say the least, nerve-wracking.  
  
At the same time, it sparked something within Dean. Something _alive_. Something desperate to claw its way out of him and wrap around this guy and never let go.  
  
But that was just creepy so Dean buried that feeling as far down as he could.  
  
The guy cocked his head to the left and the sight reminded Dean of a confused puppy. “No, you don’t,” he replied mournfully. His voice was so low it was practically a growl and it did _things_ to Dean. Specifically, the lower regions of his body.  
  
“I’m Dean, Dean Smith,” he blurted, thrusting his hand out without thinking.  
  
Tall, Pale but Handsome smiled warmly at him. “I know,” he said, taking Dean’s hand with both of his. “My name is Castiel.”  
  
“Nice to meet you, Castiel,” said Dean, smiling back. “Hey, um, wanna grab some lunch together?”  
  
It took him a while to realize what he’d just said but before he could start backpedaling, Castiel’s smile widened and Dean promptly forgot how to breathe.  
  
“I’d like that very much.”

_April, 1997_

  
  
Sam drops the messy stack of papers on the table unceremoniously. “We’ve figured out a pattern,” he announces proudly.  
  
“Besides the fact that this thing’s a homophobe?”  
  
“Yes,” says Sam. “Here, take a look at these pictures.”  
  
Dean and Castiel lean forward to do so. “These are the victims,” says Castiel, instantly recognizing some of the pictures from those at the victims’ homes.  
  
“Yeah, so?” says Dean.  
  
“ _So_ ,” continues John. “Notice anything about them in particular?”  
  
Dean narrows his eyes, observing each picture more closely now. “They... They all have brown hair,” he says wondrously. “It’s not a coincidence, is it?”  
  
Sam nods. “We looked through the papers and found something that might explain it.” He points to an old newspaper dated to three weeks ago. “Before all these deaths started occurring, a girl committed suicide. Get this: ‘Lauren Bray, aged nineteen, died yesterday night after her long-time boyfriend Nathan Harris ended their relationship over another man. The man in question was Daniel Turner, who admitted to the _Centennial Citizen_ that he and Harris had been seeing each other for years and decided to finally make their relationship official.  
  
“‘Bray, on discovering her boyfriend’s affair, grew furious and, according to Harris, even “violent”. She demanded Harris to take her back otherwise she would kill herself. Unfortunately, Harris and Turner dismissed her threat and Bray jumped to her death from a window on the tenth floor of the Republic Plaza that very night.’” Sam points to two pictures on the article. One is of the girl, still alive and happy. She was pretty—with golden hair that tumbled down to her waist like a waterfall, tanned skin, and innocent sapphire blue eyes. The other picture contains a shot of Harris and Turner. The man on the right is a blond, just like Lauren, and the one on the left has dark brown hair. “He kinda looks like you, Cas,” notes Sam.  
  
Dean grimaces. “Well, if that isn’t the most screwed up thing ever then I don’t know what is.”  
  
Castiel whispers a silent prayer for the girl’s soul. He’s certain now that she is the one behind all the deaths. After dying with so much pain and hatred in her heart, it would have been impossible for her to have passed on peacefully.  
  
“That sort of explains why her targets are so specific; they all look like Turner. I’m surprised she hasn’t gone after _him_ yet, though,” muses Sam.  
  
“It’s possible that she doesn’t remember him due to the traumatic nature of her death,” suggests Castiel. “She can’t recall _who_ Daniel Turner is despite remembering what he looks like in such vivid detail. Therefore, she can only go after the most likely candidates until she finally finds him. But even then, I doubt she’ll ever stop.”  
  
John nods, taking this all in silently. “Alright, here’s what we do... ”

*

  
  
Harris blinks. "So you're telling me that the reason all these people are dying is because my dead ex-girlfriend is jealous of my boyfriend?" Everyone in the room except Castiel shuffles awkwardly, trying their best to avoid each other's gaze. Even John, one of the most hard-hearted man Castiel has ever met, looks a little uncomfortable. Harris's eyes narrow. "Get out of my house," he says slowly. His voice is quiet and cold as ice. "Before I call the police." He steps in front of Turner, stretching his arms out over him protectively.  
  
John, Dean, and Castiel are up on their feet and moving towards the door in one swift motion. Castiel pauses at the doorway to look back and his eyes meet Turner's. The man looks frightened and Castiel feels pity for him.  
  
"Let's go, Cas," mutters Dean, gently steering him down the steps. The door slams shut almost immediately after Castiel crosses the threshold.  
  
"Looks like we're onto Plan B now," John says gruffly.

*

  
  
Plan B goes horribly, disastrously wrong before they manage to exorcise the spirit of poor Lauren Bray.  
  
While John and Sam had gone to salt and burn the body, Dean and Castiel watch the house from the cover of the Impala. Not long after, Lauren Bray makes her presence known in all her hideous glory. She attacks Castiel before he could register her spirit was even present, suddenly materializing on top of his body with her icy, decaying hands curled tightly around his neck.  
  
“ _Killkillkilltheonewhostole_ him _fromme_!” she caws in a chilling voice.  
  
Castiel grabs her arm in a last attempt to wrench her off him but her grip, heightened by her supernatural state and anger, is too strong.  
  
He catches a glimpse of Dean’s face—fear is written all over it like an open book—and, even as his gaze begins to dim, thinks, _No! It can’t end like this!_  
  
He vaguely hears Dean yell "Cas!" before the air explodes with gunshots. Lauren Bray disappears from view with a haunting shriek. “Oh my God,” Dean breathes, “Cas, are you okay?” His hands scrabble all over Castiel’s body, searching for damage. Even when he finds none he doesn’t let go.  
  
 _He’s afraid_ , Castiel realizes, _he’s afraid that I’ll disappear_. He gently pushes Dean off him. “I’m fine,” he says calmly. “Let’s worry about—”  
  
At that moment, Harris bursts out of his house, dressed only in a robe and slippers. "What the Hell is going on—" The words die on his lips when Lauren suddenly morphs into existence right in front of him. “L-Lauren?" he whispers, confused and afraid.  
  
She stares at him unblinkingly for a few seconds that tick by like gasped breaths. Then, something flickers in her eyes. Recognition. She opens her mouth and lets out a terrible scream, “ _KILLKILLKILL!”_ She disappears within seconds, leaving a misty white trail behind her as she slips into the house.  
  
"Fuck!" Dean is instantly out of the car and running up to the house with lightning speed.  
  
"What the fuck was that?" Harris steps in his path. "That was... That was... "  
  
"Your crazy bitch ex," Dean snarls, roughly shoving him to the side. "She's gonna kill David unless you _move right now and let me do my job_." Even before Harris could take a step back, Dean is already barreling through the door and up the stairs.  
  
But he’s too late.

*

  
  
"We did it! We burned her body! We—" Sam stops as he approaches the bedroom and catches the look on Harris's face; absolute despair.  
  
This is the first time Castiel doesn’t feel victorious after a hunt. Instead, he feels hollow. One look at the Winchesters confirms that he’s not the only one. The expression on Dean’s face is unreadable but his eyes hide nothing from Castiel; he’s terrified, angry, and upset all at once. The light in his eyes, the one that Castiel usually sees at the end of a hunt, is absent.  
  
"He's dead," Harris chokes out, tightening his grip on Turner's cold hand as he bows his head. "I can't—" He cries openly in front of them all.  
  
Turner died in his sleep, unaware of what happened to him at the very end. How Lauren Bray wrapped her hands around his neck and squeezed the life out of him. How, only seconds after the act, her body was finally torched and her spirit forced to cross the Other Side. "I'm sorry," says Castiel, meaning it with all his heart despite knowing his words will provide little comfort.  
  
Harris whips his head up and looks around the room with the wild eyes of a man who just lost everything he loved. "He's gone... D-David, he... " He says no more as he dissolves into sobs.

*

  
  
They all return to the motel that night in mournful silence. Almost immediately after dropping off his bag, John is on his feet once again and out the door within seconds. The groan his truck makes as he pulls out of the parking lot and, presumably, to the nearest bar reverberates in the room. Sam wordlessly slips into one of the rooms without looking at Dean or Castiel at all.  
  
The moment the door shuts with a ‘click!’ Dean immediately pounces on Castiel, kissing him with so much desperation that all he can do is hold on. Eventually Dean has to surface for air but his arms remain locked on Castiel like those of an octopus. “God,” he breathes, burying his face in Castiel’s shoulder and inhaling deeply, “I thought... I thought she was gonna get you.”  
  
Castiel tightens his hold. “I’m alright,” he whispers into Dean’s hair. “I’m here.”  
  
They stay like this for a long time until Dean mutters something that causes Castiel’s whole body to tense up. He pulls away a little, though he still keeps his arms around Dean in reassurance. “What?”  
  
Dean’s face is redder than a tomato and he bites his lip. “Will... Will you fuck me?” His voice is the softest Castiel has ever heard it.  
  
“I’ve never done it before,” he says hesitantly.  
  
Dean smiles weakly. “It’s okay. I—It’s been a while since I’ve done it. Well, I’ve never done it with another _guy_ but... ” He trails off, looking increasingly unsure. “Um, if you don’t want to... ”  
  
An image of Dean spread out on a bed before him flashes through Castiel’s mind and it, combined with the events of the night, is enough for him to make his decision. “I trust you,” he says earnestly, feeling the air around them grow warm. Just to get his point across, he presses his lips against Dean’s.  
  
Dean lets out a shuddering sigh and the invisible load on his shoulders vanishes. “Okay,” he replies, smiling almost shyly now.  
  
He leads him to the room that is supposed to be reserved for John. It’s completely untouched. As soon as the door is shut Dean gently guides him towards the bed. “First things first: you gotta strip.”  
  
Castiel does and he can feel Dean’s eyes on him the whole time, drinking him in. His heart is pounding rapidly in his chest and he fights to restrain himself. They’ve never gone this far before; up till now they always exchanged blowjobs and handjobs.  
  
When it’s Dean’s turn to undress Castiel can’t look away from the sight. The ripple of his muscle and skin against the dim glow of the light outside the window is hypnotic and Castiel aches to reach out and touch him. “See something you like?” Dean teases, nodding at Castiel’s hardening cock.  
  
 _I see something I love._ “The view isn’t too bad.”  
  
Dean laughs and pushes Castiel down on the bed, following suit once his back lands on the mattress and straddling him. He reaches over to the side of the bed to grab a couple items from his duffel bag—a bottle of lube and a condom. “Cas,” he says smoothly. “I’m gonna show you something _amazing_.”  
  
It doesn’t take long for him to have Castiel writhing and gasping under his skillful touch. He had long memorized the map that is Castiel’s body and knows _exactly_ where to touch to set him on fire. Without warning, Dean starts prepping himself, closing his eyes and letting out a soft sigh as he pushes his finger in. Castiel tightens his grip on Dean’s waist and can only watch, mesmerized, as Dean comes undone right in front of him.

 

“Dean, may I—”

 

“Yeah,” Dean breathes, “go for it.”

 

Castiel pours some lube onto his fingers and hesitant reaches behind Dean to touch his lower back, sliding down, down, until he can feel Dean’s finger going in his hole. He gulps and slowly, so slowly, slides one finger in alongside Dean’s, eliciting a hiss from the other boy. He instantly stops. “Am I hurting you?” he asks in concern.

 

Dean shakes his head. “N-No, I’ll be fine in a bit.” Castiel can feel Dean making an effort to relax and loosen up. It is taking all his effort not to push into the tight heat, not to try and find that spot that can light Dean up from the inside. “Okay,” he breathes, “I’m ready.”

 

Castiel nods and pushes his finger in, bit by bit, until he’s up to his knuckle, right beside Dean’s finger. They work out a steady rhythm, pushing in and out in tandem until Dean throws his head back and lets out a loud cry that must surely wake the neighbours. “T-There,” Dean gasps, “that’s it.”

 

Dean pulls his finger out as Castiel replaces it with two of his own and crooks them into a semi-circle, trying to find that spot again. Dean leans forward and places his left hand by Castiel’s head as he uses the other to stroke both their dicks together. Castiel moans and grasps the back of Dean’s hip with his other hand, pushing him towards Castiel. Their lips meet in a messy, desperate kiss.

 

After a few moments, Dean raises himself back up. He grabs the condom he took out earlier and tears the packet open, somehow, with shaky fingers. He rolls it expertly down Castiel’s penis and, before Castiel’s aware of it, Dean’s quickly—too quickly—sinking down on him and Castiel cries out at the sudden, tight warmth engulfing him, overwhelmed by the very presence of _Dean_.  
  
Him— _inside_ Dean.  
  
“Dean—” Castiel’s hands latch onto his hips, trying to find something solid to hold onto. His mind is buzzing with a thousand new sensations and he’s drowning in them all.  
  
“Just,” Dean gasps and he has to hold onto the headboard for support. “Give me a minute. _Fuck_ , you’re—you’re so big.”  
  
They wait, trying to steady their breaths as they do so, until Dean begins to rock his hips up and down and Castiel thrusts up to meet him every time. They start out messily but eventually find a rhythm that has them both gasping and moaning in ecstasy, fireworks exploding within both of them. A few seconds later Dean guides Castiel’s hand to his penis and the noises he makes at the contact goes straight through Castiel’s ears and down to his dick.  
  
He’s almost convinced that he’s flying; there’s no other way to explain this feeling in his body, as if electricity and fire are simultaneously coursing through his veins. He feels heat—burning heat—pooling in his stomach, the pressure building up, up, up as he drives deeper into Dean. “Dean, I—”  
  
“It’s okay,” he pants. “Just let it go, Cas, come on... ”  
  
They come together with a cry and Castiel, for a brief moment, feels as if he’s floating in the air, no longer trapped in his vessel, and it’s glorious.  
  
He comes back to Dean collapsing on top of him, his breaths coming out in a staccato rhythm. “That was—”  
  
Castiel nods in agreement. Dean chuckles and kisses him lazily, wrapping himself around Castiel like a blanket. It’s quiet for a long time, the silence only occasionally broken by their heavy breathing.  
  
Castiel doesn’t know what suddenly possesses him to say it but he does so anyway, “I love you, Dean.”  
  
Dean tenses in his grip and for a minute Castiel is afraid. Afraid that this relationship between him and Dean, still so new and raw, is about to shatter just because he couldn’t control himself. But he doesn’t regret it, not really.  
  
“I... ” _I love you too_ , are the words Dean doesn’t say out loud but Castiel can hear them echo from within his soul, loud and clear like a psalm.  
  
He kisses Dean and wraps his arms more securely around him in reassurance. “I know.”  
  
“God, I’m such a girl,” Dean chokes, his voice caught between a laugh and a sob. “I was so fucking scared that she was gonna get you and I just can’t—”  
  
“I’m alright now,” Castiel assures him, pressing a light kiss into his hair. “I’m not going to leave you.” _Ever_.  
  
Dean looks up at him. His eyes are filled with hope and fear.  
  
“I promise,” adds Castiel.  
  
Dean smiles and Castiel feels as if he’s staring into the sun for the first time. “I’ll hold you to that.”


	8. Chapter 8

_March, 2009_

  
  
Dean stared at the man gorging on the White Castle burgers in front of him. He knew the minute this man—Jimmy Novak, he called himself—opened his blue, blue eyes that he wasn’t Castiel anymore. Or rather, Castiel wasn’t him anymore.  
  
Jimmy took no notice of the attention on him. Even though it was the same body it was definitely a different person.  
  
“What the Hell happened back there?” Sam asked, sounding impatient. “I mean, it looked like an angel battle royale.”  
  
Cas— _Jimmy_ shrugged nonchalantly, as if the fact that Castiel was no longer in his body wasn’t a big deal. “All I remember is there was a flash of light and I... uh, and I woke up and I was just, like, _me_ again.”  
  
“So what, Cas just ditched out of your meatsuit?” Dean asked hopefully. Sam wasn’t wrong when he described the scene they found Jimmy in as the arena for an angel battle royale. The thought disturbed him but he’d settle for not knowing where Castiel was as long as he was safe and had been able to escape the other dick angels. He didn’t want to think about the alternative.  
  
Jimmy shrugged again. “I really dunno.”  
  
“You remember anything about being possessed? Anything at all?” Sam pressed.  
  
Jimmy hummed under his breath and it was not the first time Dean was struck by just how _different_ he was from Castiel. The action was far too human for Dean’s taste and wasn’t that just bizarre? “Bits and pieces,” he said. “I mean, angel being inside you, it’s kinda like being chained to a comet.” He said all this very casually but something dark in his eyes told Dean that it was more than that.  
  
“Well, that didn’t sound like much fun.”  
  
Jimmy scoffed. “Understatement.”  
  
“Cas said he wanted to tell us something,” said Sam. “Please, tell me you remember that.”  
  
“Sorry,” said Jimmy, shaking his head, but he didn’t sound apologetic at all. Dean wanted to be mad at him but the truth was he couldn’t blame the guy. He got dealt a shitty hand, just like him and Sam.  
  
“Hey,” he said. “Can I ask you something?”  
  
“You already did.” He smiled pleasantly when Sam and Dean both shot an irritated glare at him.  
  
“Yeah, whatever,” muttered Dean. “Um, you wouldn’t happen to know anyone named Caspar, would you?”  
  
Sam whipped his head up so fast Dean could’ve sworn he heard the whiplash. He was staring at Dean as if he’d just grown two extra heads and one of them just suggested they join Lilith’s side.  
  
Jimmy furrowed his eyebrows. “You mean like the ghost?”  
  
“No, I mean one of the Magi who—nevermind.” At poor Jimmy’s increasingly confused expression he stopped. It looked like the mystery of Castiel versus Caspar was still yet to be solved.  
  
“Look,” said Jimmy, not unkindly. “I just want to get back home to my family, to the people I love.”  
  
 _That makes two of us_ , Dean thought bitterly.

_May, 1997_

  
  
"We're hunting a werewolf," John announces that morning.  
  
The school term had just finished, much to everyone else’s pleasure except for Sam’s. According to Dean, “that’s because Sam’s a giant freak.” Sam responded by punching his arm. The impending arrival of summer meant more time for hunts; they had already breezed through three in one week.  
  
Dean lets out a loud whoop and actually jumps in the air. "Awesome!" Sam sighs but he, too, can't resist Dean's good mood as he bursts out in a wide smile as well.  
  
"It'll be dangerous," Castiel points out.  
  
Dean winks at him. "That's what makes it fun. Man, I've been dying to hunt a werewolf _forever_. Just a good old fashion shoot 'em up. No research necessary."  
  
Sam shakes his head pityingly. "You’re never gonna pass high school at the rate you’re going."  
  
"Bite me," Dean says sweetly.  
  
"Come on, boys," says John. "We've got a few hours of driving ahead of us and I'd like to at least get to the campsite before sundown."  
  
Dean gives his father a playful salute. "Yessir." He throws his arm around Castiel's shoulder and leads him to the Impala. "Aren't you excited, Cas? We're gonna go camping and hunt a werewolf! Isn't this the best?"  
  
"I suppose." Castiel knows what camping is but he’s not quite certain he’ll enjoy it the same way Dean does. But for Dean, he’ll try.  
  
"Dad, was Dean ever dropped on the head as a child? Because there's gotta be a reason he's got such a warped sense of reality—ow!"

*

  
  
Dean decides that the fact the hunt is at Kittery Point, the very place the Winchesters met Castiel almost a year ago (has it really been that long?), is hilarious. He burst out laughing when they crossed the state line to Maine and nearly crashed the car into a tree when they passed a sign that said 'Welcome to Kittery Point!' Even Sam found it amusing, but only after Dean composed himself long enough to keep the Impala on the road and not on the verge flipping it over (and killing its passengers along the way). Both of them announced it was "one Hell of a coincidence".  
  
Castiel knows it's not coincidence, that coincidence doesn't exist and is only an illusion created by humans to explain the work of Fate. He's brought back here for a reason but what it is, he doesn't know. He's not sure he wants to know.  
  
The campsite they arrive at is practically deserted. Unlike last time, John decides to forgo renting a cabin, choosing to sleep under a tent instead. "Okay," declares John once they find the spot labeled '20D'. "Dean, Caspar, you're in charge of getting fire wood. Sam, you're getting the water. I'll pitch the tents."  
  
On that note, they disperse.  
  
When they're safely out of John's sight, Dean bumps his shoulder against Castiel's and threads their fingers together. A pleasant feeling of warmth spikes through Castiel's body and he squeezes Dean's hand. He doesn't ever want to let go.  
  
Unfortunately, he's forced to do exactly that when Dean starts collecting dry twigs scattered all over the ground like messy webs while Castiel stands behind him awkwardly. “I’ve never gone camping before,” he admits forlornly. Even though he observed the growth of humanity for centuries—from when Adam birthed Eve from his rib to the fall of the Twin Towers in New York—doing the same things the humans do still isn’t as simple as they seemed when he watched the actions performed from above.  
  
Dean laughs and pats him consolingly on the shoulder. “That’s fine. I’m sure you’ll love it.” He leans in until his breath is ghosting over Castiel’s lips, wrapping his arms around Castiel’s neck. Castiel automatically places his hands on Dean’s hips. “Liiiike, skinny-dipping. You haven’t gone skinny-dipping before, have you?”  
  
Castiel tilts his head to the side, confused. “No, I have not.”  
  
Dean’s grin is predatory as he leads Castiel through the trees and to the lake on the other side of where their campsite is. It’s in a fairly desolate and quiet area, ensuring that they won’t be interrupted by any unwanted witnesses.  
  
Dean begins to strip and it doesn’t take long for Castiel to follow suit. Once they’ve both thrown off their last pieces of clothing, Dean dives into the water. He resurfaces soon after, laughing in delight and sounding much younger than he really is. His skin glistens in the sun like gold but the fond smile he directs at Castiel— _only for Castiel_ —shines even brighter.  
  
Castiel falls just a little more in love with him.

_March, 2009_

  
  
“I learned my lesson while I was away, Dean. I serve Heaven. I don’t serve Man and I certainly don’t serve _you_.”  
  
Dean grew cold at the words.  
  
He honestly thought Castiel was different. Still a bit of a dick, but different from the other angels nonetheless. He should’ve known it was too good to be true. That was pretty much his life in a nutshell; just when things start looking up (if only marginally), something’s bound to come by and snatch it all away, taking a piece of Dean with it every time.

_May, 1997_

  
  
Sam takes one look at them and says flatly, “You’re wet.” This is mostly directed at Dean rather than Castiel.  
  
“We went swimming,” Dean replies cheerfully, not even bothering to hide what Sam frequently called his "shit-eating" grin.  
  
Sam gags. "I _so_ did not need to know that."

_April, 2009_

  
  
Dean was drowning. Drowning in a bottomless ocean with no lifeline in sight. The angels—sure, they were dicks but they were still _angels_ —were supposed to be all about saving the world, protecting humanity, right? _Not bringing fucking Armageddon to the planet_. But what's worse, though, was Cas... this was what Castiel wanted to tell him but _didn't_.  
  
Guess Dean Winchester wasn’t as worth it as he thought he was.  
  
That little winged fucker betrayed him and Dean couldn't decide if this was worse than when Caspar died or not. Dean was losing someone he... someone he loved all over again and just like before there was nothing he could do to save him. There was no bringing him—them—back. Not this time, not ever.  
  
When Castiel signaled his entrance with a flap of his wings it took everything in Dean's power not to go right up to him and punch him until he couldn't see those eyes looking at him anymore. What right did Castiel have to even show his face in front of Dean now?  
  
"You can't reach him, Dean. You're outside your coverage zone."  
  
"What are you gonna do to Sam?" Dean yelled.  
  
Castiel's face was as blank as it was the day they met. "Nothing. He's going to do it to himself."  
  
"What's that supposed to mean?" When Castiel looked down, guiltily even, Dean scoffed. "Oh, right. Gotta toe the company line. Why are you here, Cas?"  
  
Castiel gulped out, "We've been through much together, you and I. And I just wanted to say... I'm sorry it ended like this."  
  
 _Stop it! You don't get to say this,_ especially _not to me._ Dean clenched his fist. " _'Sorry'?_ ” Despite a nagging voice in his head telling him this was probably a very bad idea, Dean threw his fist, his knuckles hitting Castiel’s cheek dead center.  
  
He immediately regretted it. His hand felt as if it had just been split in two and Castiel didn’t even flinch.  
  
Despite the pain, he barreled on. He needed Castiel to hear this. “It's _Armageddon, Cas_. You need a bigger word than 'sorry'." And even then it wouldn't be enough. It would take an eternity to fix this.  
  
Castiel looked torn, as if he was unraveling from the inside out. "Try to understand—this is long foretold. This is your—"  
  
"Destiny? Don't give me that 'holy' crap. Destiny, God's plan... it's all a bunch of lies, you poor, stupid son of a bitch. You know what's real? People, families—that's real." _Sammy, Bobby..._ "And you're gonna watch them all burn?"  
  
At that, Castiel seemed to flare up like a match that had just been struck. "What is so worth saving? I see nothing but pain here. I see _inside you_. I see your guilt, your anger, confusion. In Paradise, all is forgiven. You'll be at peace, even with Sam."  
  
Honestly, that stopped Dean for two seconds. For two brief, horrifying two seconds he wanted to give in. Stop fighting. Just... stop. _Haven't you fought enough?_ a voice, which sounded suspiciously like Caspar—Castiel (he didn't know anymore), asked him.  
  
 _Probably_.  
  
"You can take your peace," said Dean, squaring his shoulders, “and shove it up your lily-white ass. 'Cause I'll take the pain and the guilt. I'll even take Sam as is. It's a lot better than being some Stepford bitch in paradise." He stepped forward, right in Castiel's personal space, which he would never have done if he still cared enough for such a thing. "This is simple, Cas, no more crap about being a good soldier! There is a right and there is a wrong here and you know it."  
  
Castiel turned away. He didn't want to hear this anymore? Well, too bad, because Dean was going to _make_ him listen. "Look at me!" He grabbed Castiel's shoulder, ignoring the spark of electricity that shot up his arm, and spun him around. "You were gonna help me once, weren't you? You were gonna warn me about all this, before they dragged you back to Bible camp. Help me—now. Please."  
  
It was the second time he begged Castiel for something, two times more than he liked. It was the same with Caspar; he always brought out the best and worst in Dean. When he burst into their lives like a whirlwind Dean hated him. But no matter what he said or did, no matter how many sticks or stones or words he threw at the other man, Caspar always stood firm by his side like a rock.  
  
Even after Dean finally gave in, finally realized he was ridiculously head over heels _in freakin’ love_ with the guy, Caspar never asked him for anything. But if he did, Dean knew he would've done whatever he wanted without a second thought.  
  
Castiel sighed and Dean thought, _I've got him now._  
  
"What would you have me do?"  
  
Dean didn't dare breathe. "Get me to Sam. We can stop this before it's too late."  
  
"I do that, we will all be hunted. We'll all be killed," said Castiel, putting significant emphasis on the words 'hunted' and 'killed'.  
  
Dean shook his head. "If there is anything worth dying for... this is it." When Castiel turned away once again Dean felt what was left of his heart crumble. "You spineless—soulless son of a bitch. What do you care about dying?" He was breaking apart and he had nothing left in him but rage. Lots of it. At Caspar for leaving him when he _promised he wouldn't_ , at Castiel for wearing _his fucking face_ , at Sam for falling prey to Ruby's siren song so easily, at God for upping and leaving, at the world for ripping his family apart like it was paper. "You're already dead! We're done!"  
  
"Dean—"  
  
It was surprisingly easy for Dean to ignore the devastation in his eyes. " _We're done._ "

_May, 1997_

  
  
They eat a quick dinner and the minute the last of the sun’s rays are snuffed out, John orders them up on their feet, shotguns (fully loaded with silver bullets) in hand, and ready to hunt a werewolf.  
  
Splitting off into pairs, Dean with Sam and John with Castiel, they comb the area carefully. There’s too much at stake, too many lives at risk; they can’t afford to miss anything. But hours later, when the birds start singing and the sky is lighter, even John knows when to concede defeat. They drag themselves back to the campsite, sore, exhausted, and discouraged. Dean and Castiel head to one of the tents before John can say anything and collapse into their sleeping bags.  
  
“‘Night, Cas,” slurs Dean. He falls asleep almost instantly, his entire body curled around Castiel’s like he can’t get enough of him.  
  
“Goodnight, Dean,” Castiel whispers fondly. He keeps watch over Dean through the morning.

_April, 2009_

  
  
The last time Dean saw Castiel before the world ended was at Chuck’s house. Castiel turned to Dean with wide eyes full of fear and determination. “I’ll hold him off,” he said, voice shaky.  
  
“Cas... ” Dean swallowed, realizing what he was saying. _Don’t do it_ , he wanted to tell him, _come with me_.  
  
“I’ll hold them all off, just stop Sam,” Castiel shouted over the roar of the archangel above them, sounding less afraid and surer of himself. Dean recognized the tone in his voice all too well.  
  
It was the voice of someone who had nothing left to lose.

_May, 1997_

  
  
The rest of the day is pretty uneventful. John disappears after breakfast, claiming to want to do more research by questioning the inhabitants of Kittery Point, hoping to find some clue as to who their target is. Sam goes to the lake to do some reading and flips Dean off when he teases him about how girly that is.  
  
That leaves Dean and Castiel to their own devices, an opportunity they waste no time in taking advantage of. They spend most of the morning and part of the afternoon kayaking in the lake. They talk about the most mundane things the whole time (the topic of hunting never comes up, which Castiel personally thinks is liberating for Dean), laugh with each other, and gleefully spend the time they have wrapped in each other’s presence.  
  
If Castiel could spend the rest of his existence like this with Dean, it would not be a wasted one.  
  
They make their way back to camp eventually. When they realize neither John nor Sam have returned, Dean casually suggests that they should do something about this golden opportunity with a leer on his face that can only mean one thing.  
  
Dean laughs as they tumble back into the tent. His laughter dissolves into a moan when Castiel’s teeth sink into his collarbone, nipping and sucking lightly. He buries his fingers in Castiel’s hair and grinds his dick against Castiel’s, earning a gasp of surprise and pleasure.  
  
Dean drags Castiel up to kiss him, coaxing his lips apart to push his tongue in. They go slow because they almost never had the opportunity for slow before. Castiel takes his time exploring Dean’s body with his hands, though by now he knows each and every part of it that there’s little left for him to discover. He takes special care in brushing over Dean’s most sensitive spots, reveling in the little gasps Dean makes. And they’re _all for him_.  
  
“Come on, Cas,” Dean begs, moaning when Castiel sinks lower down his body, pushes his shirt up and dips his tongue experimentally in his navel.  
  
Castiel draws back up, kissing Dean deeply as he dips his hand in Dean’s pants, brushing against his cock.  
  
“Oh my god,” Dean gasps, thrusting up automatically.  
  
“I find it disconcerting how you have to bring Him into this,” growls Castiel.  
  
Dean laughs breathlessly and wraps both of his legs around Castiel’s waist and just _tugs_ , forcing him down until they’re pressed right up against one another and their clothes are the only things separating them. “You know you’re the only one for me,” he says innocently. The words flood Castiel with warmth even though he knows Dean is just teasing him. He also doesn’t care.  
  
Castiel grins and leans down to kiss him.  
  
That’s when everything is shot to Hell.

*

  
  
John is sitting between them, glaring at Castiel with so much intensity in his eyes that it almost makes him look inhuman. Sam’s eyes are firmly trained on the ground while Dean’s are fixed on John and Castiel, anxiously waiting for his father’s verdict.  
  
“I can’t believe you,” he growls. Castiel knows that it’s taking everything in his power not to cause brutal bodily harm to him. “Is this your idea of a joke, you son of a bitch? You barge into people’s lives, pretend you want to help them, while you go behind my back and... and... ”  
  
“And what, Dad?” Dean says boldly. “What _is_ he doing?”  
  
“ _Taking advantage of you_ ,” John spits out, now swiveling to glare at Dean instead.  
  
To Castiel’s surprise, Dean is glaring defiantly back at him. “No, Dad, he’s not,” he replies coolly. “I want this, too.”  
  
“You don’t know what you want.”  
  
Dean stands up so suddenly it surprises them all, including Castiel. “Dad, I’m eighteen. I’ve known what I wanted for a long time,” he says coolly.  
  
John is staring at Dean like he’s seeing him for the first time. He might as well have; they have been strangers to each other for years. “Yeah? And what’s that?” he challenges haughtily.  
  
“I want Cas,” says Dean, pointing to Castiel. “I want Sam to be safe. I want _us_ to be safe.”  
  
The silence is suffocating. “What did you say?” John asks, so quietly Castiel nearly misses it.  
  
“I don’t want to hunt forever,” confesses Dean. Sam looks just as surprised (and thrilled) as Castiel is. “Dad, it’s been years since Mom died,” he says more gently. “I want to find her killer just as much as you do, but... I don’t want to drag Sammy or Cas down as well.”  
  
“You don’t know what you’re saying!” John stands up, too, and he and Dean are face to face now; not as general and soldier, but as equals.  
  
“Dad, all my life I did what you told me to do! You told me that family was important, that we should stick together, and I _believed you_.”  
  
“But you don’t now?”  
  
Dean glances at Castiel. There is so much love in the man’s eyes that Castiel is taken aback. “I still believe you,” he says softly. “But that doesn’t mean I want to drag my family across the country to hunt something that hurt us once and could probably hurt us again.”  
  
“You’re going to give up, is that it?”  
  
“ _Yes_.”  
  
Sam gasps and John’s eyes widen, almost comically. He looks to Castiel, disgust written all over his face. “You’d give all this up for _him_?” he hisses.  
  
Dean nods. “For him and Sammy.”  
  
From the glint in Dean’s eyes, Castiel knows that this isn’t the first time Dean’s thought about leaving. In fact, it’s been on his mind for a long time. It only took Castiel, the catalyst, to push him into speaking up.  
  
John looks like he’s itching for his gun to shoot at Castiel but they’re interrupted by the eerie howl of a wolf in the distance. Castiel turns to the source of the sound immediately. To human ears, it would sound like a particularly large wolf but Castiel knows every single creature on God’s earth and _that_ is not one of them.   
  
John glares at them all. “We’ll talk about this later. Dean, Sam, come with me.”  
  
“What about Cas?” Sam asks hesitantly, shooting worried glances at him.  
  
John’s hand twitches. “ _Cas_ can do whatever the Hell he wants but he’s not coming with us. In fact,” he turns to Castiel, eyes narrowed. “I want him to leave.”  
  
“Dad,” Dean protests as he steps in between them.  
  
“ _My decision is final,_ ” John roars.  
  
But Dean doesn’t give up. “If he leaves,” he says, his voice harder than stone, “I’m leaving with him.”  
  
John looks utterly betrayed. After a long moment of unsure silence, he barks out, “We’ll talk about this later.”  
  
“I can help,” Castiel says, speaking for the first time since John found him and Dean in their tent.  
  
John looks between him and Dean. He seems to realize that there’s nothing he can do to stop Castiel from joining them on their hunt because after a while he spits out, “Fine. Dean, Sam, you two investigate the west side. _Cas_ is coming with me.”  
  
Dean looks like he’s about to protest but one vicious glare from John stops him. Instead, he turns to Castiel and mouths “be careful” to him. Castiel nods in acknowledgment and prays that Dean and his brother will be safe as well. John pushes him forward none-too-gently and the search begins.

*

  
  
Werewolves have a distinct scent; human mixed with the earth to create something that shouldn’t be possible yet is. They’re not evil by nature but they carry a dark, musky aura with them wherever they go, leaving a distinct trail behind them.  
  
That’s how Castiel knows when the werewolf is near.  
  
“Stop,” he commands, holding a hand up in front of John. John huffs in annoyance but obeys. He cocks his gun and the ‘clack!’ bounces across the trees almost as loud as an actual gunshot.  
  
It’s too quiet. All signs of life in the forest have gone into hiding, leaving no trace of their presence behind. The bushes several feet to Castiel’s right rustle and both John and Castiel turn to it at the same time. Crouching down, Castiel slowly crawls towards it, trusting that John would be smart enough to realize that shooting Castiel when his back is turned instead of watching out for the werewolf would be a waste, no matter how much he probably wants to.  
  
Castiel is halfway to the bush when a cry from John and a snarl from something that definitely isn’t human interrupt him. He whips his head back to see the werewolf leaping from its hiding place, aiming for John’s jugulars. Luckily, John is fast and blocks it with his gun, but loses his balance in the process. The werewolf lands on top of him and snaps at him, aiming for his neck again and again.  
  
“Hey!” Castiel shouts, summoning as much authority in his voice as he can. The werewolf pauses and looks up at him, obviously confused by his scent. Castiel lifts his hand up. “Get away from him,” he commands. He pulls at invisible puppet strings and the werewolf goes flying into a nearby tree.  
  
Castiel rushes to John’s side and pulls him up. “Are you alright?” he asks, inspecting the man’s body for scratches or bite marks. Fortunately, there is none.  
  
“‘M fine,” grunts John, pushing his hands away. He looks over Castiel’s shoulder and his eyes widen. “Watch out—”  
  
Too late. The werewolf is already on Castiel’s back, sinking its fangs in the back of his neck. Castiel lets out a cry as the unfamiliar tinge of _pain_ smashes into him and he stumbles back, pulled down by the weight of the werewolf. He loses his footing and both he and the creature go tumbling down the hill. He vaguely hears John shouting his name from the top but his voice is miles away.  
  
They come to a stop on an unfamiliar beach, surrounded by water on one side and trees on the other. Castiel pushes himself up, just in time for the werewolf to leap at him again. This time, he’s prepared and dodges out of the way, though the werewolf still manages to clamp down on the sleeve of his trench coat. Castiel pulls away, losing his coat in the process.  
  
The werewolf tosses it aside and goes down on all fours, hackles raised, ears flattened, and growling at Castiel in a challenge. Castiel stretches his arms out in front of him, ready for the wolf’s next attack, but the assault doesn’t come.  
  
Before he knows it, a blinding, familiar light shines down from the sky like a spotlight, singling the werewolf out. The creature lets out a pained whimper as the light grows brighter until it becomes pure white and the werewolf is no longer to be seen. Castiel keeps his eyes open, unaffected by the light, but he’s scared all the same.  
  
He recognizes this light.  
  
He hears the snap of fingers behind him, followed by the werewolf’s pained screech as its heart beats for one last time before its entire body is burned to a crisp. Castiel whirls around and, to his horror, his suspicions were correct. It’s Raphael; his vessel is younger but no less threatening than it is in the present.  
  
The archangel observes what’s left of the werewolf’s corpse disinterestedly before turning to Castiel. “You’re not from this time,” he states, cutting directly to the chase.  
  
Castiel gulps and takes a hesitant step back. “No, I’m not,” he answers truthfully. There’s no way he can hide from the archangel.  
  
“Then clearly you should return to your original time,” he says bluntly.  
  
Castiel shakes his head. “My powers are not what they used to be. I... I cannot return.”  
  
“Then I shall assist you,” says Raphael, taking a step forward. “I don’t know what’s so special about you, brother, but you have my mark... ”  
  
 _That’s why I couldn’t fly_ , Castiel realizes. So the Raphael in the present left him a parting gift before sending him to this time.  
  
“... and I have been ordered to return you to your time.”  
  
“No!” Castiel shouts, surprising both himself and Raphael. “Not yet, please, brother, I entreat you.” There’s still so much to do, his mind tells him, buzzing frantically. He still has to say goodbye to Dean, explain everything to him—  
  
“I’m sorry,” says Raphael coldly. He grabs Castiel’s arm and, no matter how much Castiel fights, he can’t escape the archangel’s grip. He feels a familiar tug in his Grace, propelling him through the whirlwind that is Time and back to the present, but he’s not concerned about that.  
  
The last thing he thinks before the world goes dark around him is _Dean_.


	9. Chapter 9

_April 2009_

  
  
Dean’s stomach drops as his world turns upside down and inside out. “The archangel smote the crap out of him. I’m sorry,” says Chuck dejectedly.  
  
“You sure? I mean, maybe he just vanished into the light or something... ”  
  
He trails off when he catches the look on Chuck’s face. He knows just as well as Chuck and Sam that Castiel is gone. It still doesn’t stop him from feeling as if his entire world has turned to dust.  
  
It feels like he’s lost Caspar all over again and a part of Dean wants to laugh hysterically at that. At the irony that the man he loved— _still loves_ —had seemingly come back to life only to die again. Mom, Dad, Cas, and even Sammy... they’re all going leave him some day.  
  
Because he’s poison and everything he touches will wither and die one day.

_May, 1997_

  
  
Dean was pretty sure he’d lost his head when he told Dad that if Cas left, he would leave too, but at the same time he’d never been more sure of anything in his life up till that point. It was the first time he ever stood up to Dad and… the last time, too.  
  
When he saw the blinding pillar of light erupt in the sky near the lake, he knew in his heart that it had something to do with Cas. He and Sam abandoned their search for the werewolf and hightailed it toward the light, but by the time they got there, there was nothing left save for the blackened corpse of the werewolf and Dad.  
  
And Cas’s trench coat—bloodied and torn, in Dad’s hand. Panic swelled in Dean as he took a tentative step forward. “Dad,” he said shakily. “Where’s Cas?”  
  
Dad turned around to look at him, a blank expression on his face. “Gone,” he said simply. “Vanished.”  
  
Dean shook his head, feeling tears brimming at the edge of his eyes. “No, you’re wrong,” he croaked. “Cas wouldn’t just leave us.” _He would never leave me_. _He fucking promised he wouldn’t!_  
  
Dad looked at him pityingly and it took everything in Dean’s power to keep from trying to wipe the look off his face. “I’m sorry, Dean,” he said, actually sounding like he meant it. “He saved my life.”  
  
“No... ” Dean stumbled back, clutching his head in his hands.  
  
“He and the werewolf... I don’t know what happened but he’s gone, Dean. He’s _gone_.”  
  
“You’re lying!” Dean shouted. The tears poured freely down his cheeks but he didn’t care. He raised his head to the sky and screamed, “ _Cas! Where are you?_ ” When he received no answer, he quickly whirled on his heels and marched into the forest, pushing Sam aside when he tried to block his path.  
  
“Dean—”  
  
“I’m gonna find him,” swore Dean. “I’m gonna find Cas.”  
  
He glanced behind him and caught Sam and Dad exchanging worried looks, but they said nothing and followed Dean into the forest, letting the thick trees swallow them like a black hole.

*

  
  
They searched for a week. By the end of the fourth day, Dean knew Kittery Point like the back of his hand.  
  
He screamed himself hoarse the entire time, crying for Cas until it wasn’t a name anymore but a mantra with no meaning. He even prayed to a God he still wasn’t sure he believed in that Cas would come back to him because he was losing a bit of himself with every minute that passed without the older man by his side.  
  
At the end of the week, Dad and Sam wordlessly began to pack away their tents and supplies, waiting until the very last minute to drag Dean—kicking and screaming—to the car. If he weren’t so angry at them for it, he would’ve laughed at the sight of seeing Dad and Sammy working together for once and not at each other’s throats.  
  
“It’s no use, Dean,” said Dad regretfully. When Dean didn’t answer him, he sighed, “I’m sorry, son. I... ”  
  
“What would you know?” Dean snapped, wincing inwardly at the crack of his throat. He was curled up in the backseat of the Impala, the very epitome of a sulky teenager with bloodshot eyes and everything. He was sure he’d cried the most in these few days than he ever did his whole life and he finally had no more tears left.  
  
To Dean’s surprise, Dad simply sighed instead of snapping back at him. “Because I know what it’s like to lose the person you love most,” he answered, so quietly that Dean nearly missed it.

*

  
  
Dean burned the trench coat the next night.

_April, 2009_

  
  
“Hey, Dean,” says Sam quietly, nudging him out of his thoughts.  
  
Dean blinks and suddenly he’s back in the cold, dank present. “What?”  
  
“We’re here.”  
  
Dean can just make out the annoyingly bright neon red sign that flashed, _CASTLE STORAGE_ above him. “Yeah.”  
  
Sam opens his mouth to say something but one look from Dean is enough to convince him that keeping quiet is for the best. Dean’s in no mood to deal with Sam and his guilt, not on top of his own twisted thoughts.

*

  
  
“—I won’t ask twice,” says Castiel.  
  
Despite the pain, Dean can’t help staring at Castiel, still can’t fully believe he’s actually _there_. He vaguely registers the flutter of wings signaling Zachariah’s departure ( _good riddance_ , he thinks) just as his body’s restored to normal. He shoots a concerned look at Sam, satisfied when he sees that he’s back to normal, too. More or less.  
  
“Cas, how are you—” But Dean doesn’t get another word in edgewise when Castiel singles in on him like a fucking missile, pulls him up with little effort, pushes him roughly against the wall, and starts kissing the life out of him.  
  
The first thing Dean thinks is he tastes so much like Caspar that it’s painful. His lips are chapped and dry and not exactly pleasant, but the familiarity of it sends a spark of desire straight through Dean’s spine. Castiel tastes like a forest with a quiet hum of power bubbling just beneath the surface, so close and threatening that it terrifies Dean but turns him on at the same time.  
  
Just like before.  
  
He pushes Castiel away once he’s got his grip, both of them breathing hard. Castiel sucks in a deep gulp of air. “Dean—”  
  
“What the fuck was that?” Dean asks. He congratulates himself for keeping his voice in check, though just barely.  
  
“I... ” Castiel looks away, almost as if he’s ashamed. “It’s me, Dean. Caspar.”  
  
Time stops.  
  
“Caspar?” Sam echoes.  
  
Dean’s head is spinning and now that he’s taken a better look at Castiel—his trench coat. It’s gone. “What—”  
  
“You knew me once as Caspar,” he says more firmly. “But my true name is Castiel. I... ”  
  
Anger flares in Dean suddenly—hot, burning rage that he’s been bottling up for years. “So you were playing us this whole time?” he barks. “Getting your jollies by screwing with my head? _Oh, I think I’ll send Dean Winchester on the most fucked up trip of his life by playing hide-and-seek with him as his dead boyfriend!_ ” Dean’s voice is getting louder and shakier now and he knows it, but he doesn’t care. All he knows is anger and pain and he wants Castiel—Caspar—who the fuck ever to feel _every last bit of it_.  
  
“That’s not true,” Castiel says weakly.  
  
“You know what? Forget it!” Dean pushes past him, past Sam, ignoring their protests. “I’m _done!_ ” The scary thing is, he means it this time.  
  
He’s spent too many years breaking his heart over and over again for Caspar, looking for someone—anyone—to fill the void in him and failing every single time. He’s done crying for him.  
  
Castiel had his chance (a hell of a lot more chances than he deserved, really) and Dean’s done waiting around for him.

*

  
  
Neither Dean nor Sam can do anything more than let out yelps of surprise when Castiel suddenly appears in front of them in Bobby’s hospital room, puts his hands on their chests, and— _holy shit, what the hell just happened to him?_  
  
“What the hell was that?” Dean snarls as soon as Castiel pulls his hands back. He tries to ignore the lingering tingle of warmth where Castiel’s hand used to be.  
  
“An Enochian sigil. It’ll hide you from every angel in creation, including Lucifer.” A beat. “Including me,” he adds quieter.  
  
“Good,” Dean replies scathingly. Castiel winces noticeably.  
  
“Dean—”  
  
“Look, if whatever you have to say next isn’t about the Apocalypse, then you’ve got nothing to say to me,” says Dean. He doesn’t want to hear Castiel’s excuses, doesn’t want to hear him ask Dean to give him another chance.  
  
Because he might do just that.  
  
Sam suddenly clears his throat and all eyes on the room turn to him. “Hey, Cas,” he says. “Wanna get some coffee with me?”  
  
“Why would I—”  
  
But Sam’s already dragging him out the door, shutting it behind him with a loud ‘click.’ It’s just Dean and Bobby now.  
  
Bobby fixes him with an unreadable look. “There somethin’ you wanna tell me, son?” he asks cautiously.  
  
Dean lets out a choked laugh, covering his face behind his right hand. He sees a flash of silver and holds it out, just realizing that he’s still wearing the ring Castiel gave him all those years ago. A pang of misery and so much _want_ hits him like a freight train and he forces himself to look away. “It’s a long, long, _very_ long story,” he says.  
  
Bobby snorts. He rolls his chair to the other side of the room where his clothes are and pulls out two silver flasks. He tosses one to Dean, who catches it easily in one hand. “We’ve got all the time in the world,” says Bobby, uncapping his flask and already downing the contents in his mouth.  
  
The irony’s not lost on either of them but it’s enough for the last of Dean’s resolve to crumble. He sighs and opens his mouth. The words he’s kept locked in the deepest, darkest corner of his heart for what felt like centuries come spilling out fluidly, finally given the chance to escape after being bottled up for so long. With every little thing he tells Bobby, another lock breaks open and everything he’s been holding in is out in the open now, and he can’t take it back anymore.  
  
By the time Dean’s done, he realizes that his cheeks are stained with tears and he actually has to sit down, his legs unable to bear the heavy weight any longer. Bobby says nothing. He simply clenches Dean’s shoulder tightly and doesn’t let go.

*

  
  
When Sam comes back from his fake coffee break, he’s alone.  
  
“Hey,” he says softly, sitting down beside Dean. “You okay?”  
  
“Just peachy.”  
  
Sam snorts. “Yeah, right.”  
  
They—Sam, Dean, and Bobby—sit like that for a long time, letting the buzz of hospital activity outside the room wash over them. Finally, though, Sam breaks the silence. “Cas told me everything.”  
  
Dean takes a long swig out of his flask. “So?” he says as nonchalantly as he can, but he knows just as well as the two men with him that he’s not fooling anyone.  
  
“He meant it, all of it,” says Sam. “When Chuck said that Raphael blasted Cas to pieces... it wasn’t true. For some reason, he sent Cas back in time, _our_ time.”  
  
It’s ludicrous and seems like the plot of a horrible, horrible _Back to the Future_ remake but hey, considering all the things they’ve seen since they were kids, Dean can believe it. “Huh,” he says carefully. He doesn’t trust himself to say more.  
  
Sam goes on, “He didn’t mean to hurt you, Dean. He just... I know it’s been years for you but it’s only been, like, a _day_ for him. He loves you—” Dean winces at that. “—and he’s trying to understand, really, but you’re not giving him the chance to.”  
  
Dean is quiet as he digests Sam’s words. “Well, too bad for him,” he eventually says.  
  
Both Bobby and Sam heave long-suffering sighs. “Dean, Cas just wants to make everything better... ”  
  
“Kinda hard when there’s a freakin’ apocalypse hanging over our heads, isn’t it?”  
  
“... why are you so against it?”  
  
Dean looks away from Sam and fixes his eyes on the floor instead. “Because he’s gonna leave again,” he rasps out. “He already did— _twice_. I don’t care if it was ‘cause of his own will or not, but the point is, there’s a big chance it’ll happen again. I’m tired of it, Sam.” He shakes his head. “Better to be like this.”  
  
“... Dean, that is dumbest thing I’ve ever heard and I was there when you tried to explain _Rocky Horror Picture Show_ to Cas.”  
  
Dean can’t help but allow himself a small smirk at the memory but he quickly sobers up as another thought crosses his mind. “It’s our curse, Sammy,” he says. “Look at Mom, she lost everything. Then Dad lost Mom, you lost Jess... ” Sam flinches at that. “... and me... ” Dean trails off. “We Winchesters are just destined to lose the things we love.” He lets out a harsh, bitter laugh.  
  
Bobby sighs and he mutters something that sounds suspiciously like “fucking idjits” under his breath. “Maybe,” he says gruffly, “but Dean, has it ever occurred to you that you might be the first Winchester to get it all back?”

*

  
  
Dean can’t stop thinking about what Bobby said. The words echo in his ears as he and Sam drive to River Pass, Colorado and they remain seared in his brain while they’re stuck in the middle of a battle royale between the entire town and War, the actual Horseman himself.  
  
When Sam tells him he wants to—no, _needs_ to leave Dean isn’t surprised. A few months ago, he would’ve tried to stop him. Now, he just doesn’t have the energy for the drama anymore. A lot can change in only a few months.  
  
Just before Sam leaves, though, he turns to Dean with the same puppy eyes his twelve year old self had. “Dean,” he says, worrying his bottom lip. “You should talk to Cas.”  
  
That... is possibly the last thing Dean thought he would say. “Why?” he calls out.  
  
“Because you’re miserable without him. Just... I want you to be happy.”  
  
And with that, Sam disappears from Dean’s life again in an old pick up that’s definitely seen better days.

*

  
  
After killing the vampire and stumbling back into his lonely motel room, Dean can’t take it anymore. He feels like a girl for even thinking about doing what he’s about to do. They’ve still got a world to save and a freakin’ Devil to gank, after all. It’s not like he can just put the Apocalypse on hold so he can work through his issues, which are microscopic in comparison.  
  
But at the same time, he knows that he’s only been functioning on auto-pilot since River Pass and there’s no way he can go up against Satan while he’s like this.  
  
He lets out a shaky breath as he takes out his cell phone, scrolling down until he can see Castiel’s name. Just before Sam left, he forced him to put his number in “just in case”. He stares at it for a long time, his thumb hovering over the button with the green telephone on it before pressing down.  
  
Castiel picks up on the first ring. “ _Hello_?” he asks, uncertain.  
  
“Hey, Cas,” says Dean quietly. “It’s me—”  
  
“ _Dean_.”  
  
Dean swallows. The way Castiel said his name, like he’s the only thing that matters in the world, always made him a little dizzy back when he was eighteen but he never thought that it would have the same effect on him now as it did twelve fucking years ago.  
  
“Yeah,” he gulps out. “I... We need to talk.”  
  
“ _Where are you?_ ”  
  
Dean barely finishes rattling off the crappy motel’s address when he hears the sound of Castiel’s wings beating the air behind him. He turns around and his breath hitches.  
  
Castiel looks so different without his trench coat but everything else about him is exactly the same; his eternally messy hair (Dean’s fingers itch to run through it) and his crystal clear blue eyes, pinning Dean where he stands with their heavy stare. “Are you alright?” Castiel asks worriedly, breaking the silence. He crosses the space between them until he’s standing right in front of Dean, gently placing a hand on his cheek. Dean jumps at the sudden contact and it comes crashing down on him just how much he missed Caspar. Castiel seems to notice this too because his eyes widen in realization and he steps back quickly, looking like a frightened animal.  
  
“Dean?”  
  
“I’m fine,” Dean begins, but when he catches the disbelief on Castiel’s face he sighs. “Actually, no, I’m not fine.”  
  
“You’re not physically injured,” says Castiel.  
  
Dean snorts. “No shit, Sherlock.” Then, more seriously, he adds, “Cas, that night with the werewolf... what happened?”  
  
“I found it,” replies Castiel. “We fought but were interrupted by the archangel Raphael. He annihilated the werewolf and, having realized that I was not from that time, sent me back to the present.”  
  
“... This really is a terrible _Back to the Future_ remake,” Dean mutters under his breath.  
  
“Was that the film with the winged cars?” Castiel chances hesitantly.  
  
Dean chuckles. “Yeah, we saw that on Thanksgiving, remember?”  
  
“I remember,” says Castiel fondly.  
  
It’s kind of comforting to see that Castiel hasn’t changed at all, even after all these years.  
  
No, it’s only been _days_ for Castiel and a whole _decade_ for Dean. Maybe Castiel hasn’t changed, but Dean sure has. And that... that scares him more than anything.  
  
An awkward silence settles over them like a heavy blanket but, to Dean’s surprise, it’s Castiel who eventually breaks it. “I’m sorry, Dean,” he says suddenly. “I... I wanted to tell you but—”  
  
“It’s okay.”  
  
“No, it’s not,” says Castiel firmly, turning away. He looks angry with himself. “You’re hurt and that... I can’t forgive myself for that. Believe me, Dean, the last thing I ever wanted to do was to hurt you.” He looks up and Dean momentarily forgets to breathe when his gaze meets Castiel’s. “I love you, Dean.”  
  
His raw confession scares Dean; it scares him because it sounds like he really means it, because Dean’s only seconds away from throwing himself back in Castiel’s arms and staying there forever.  
  
“You don’t know that,” he chokes out. “It’s been years, Cas. I’m not the same kid I was back then.” _I’m ugly and screwed in the head_ , are the words he doesn’t say, but he doesn’t doubt that Castiel can hear him.  
  
Castiel looks stunned, like he can’t believe this revelation. “Dean,” he says slowly, stepping forward to close the gap between them. “I’ve seen your soul, all of it, I rebuilt your body from dust and I know _every single inch of it_.” He takes another step and the space between them grows smaller by another foot. “I’ve seen you at your worst... ” Dean cringes as his memories of Hell briefly resurface but Castiel keeps going, “... and at your best.” There’s barely a hair’s breadth of space between them now.  
  
Every part of Dean is screaming at him to back away and run because he can’t deal with this—it’s too much. But Castiel’s eyes hold him in place and he can’t look away. He brings his hand up to clasp Dean’s cheek again, brushing his thumb across Dean’s skin carefully. “I _know_ you, Dean, _all of you_. And, _because_ of that, not _in spite_ of it, I love you. I loved you then and I love you now. I’ll always love you.”  
  
Dean’s world stops spinning and there’s nothing but him and Castiel in their own little universe. “Really?” he can’t help asking, silently berating himself for sounding like a little kid.  
  
Castiel nods. “Yes.”  
  
Like a spell that’s been broken, Dean suddenly surges forward, wrapping his arms around Castiel’s neck and kissing him with a passion he hasn’t felt in twelve years. Castiel pulls him closer, wrapping his arms around Dean’s waist, and kisses back with just as much force and emotion. Dean pulls back only long enough to gasp out, “We’ve got a lot of lost time to make up.”  
  
Castiel smiles up at him with the same smile he wore when they went to the carnival all those years ago. He leans forward, pressing their foreheads together, and whispers, “Yes, we do.”

*

 

 _Again and again, even though we know love’s landscape_  
 _and the little churchyard with its lamenting names,_  
 _and the terrible reticent gorge in which the others_  
 _end: again and again the two of us walk out together_  
 _under the ancient trees, lay ourselves down again and again_  
 _among the flowers, face to face with the skies._  
  
\- “Again and again, even though we know love’s landscape” by Rainer Maria Rilke


End file.
